


A Light Shining in Darkness

by EnricoDandolo



Series: History is our mother [5]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Attempt at Realism, Bethquisitor, Multi, Politics, Religious Fanaticism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 139,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4246563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnricoDandolo/pseuds/EnricoDandolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Led out of the Fade by Andraste herself, Bethany Hawke knows she has been chosen to fix the world. But as an army of the faithful rises around her, the Inquisition's enemies arm themselves to test her principles. And in this age of digital information, full-scale thaumic war is now closer than ever ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lasciate ogni speranza

**Author's Note:**

> Been forever since I wrote anything but oneshots, but here we go. Let's see how long I'll take this.
> 
> For new readers, this is going to be a Bethany-centric multi-chapter fic set in the modern AU first outlined in my oneshot "Born Free and Everywhere in Chains" reading it and its prequel, "Orphic Memories", might give you an edge over other readers in understanding hints and references, but I'll endeavour to keep it from becoming a requirement. Not that I wouldn't like for you to read them, you know. There are, however, some retcons from Born Free, so it's not precisely the same AU. Most importantly, the Mage Rebellion began in 9:37, not 9:34, and Marian Hawke is the Champion of Kirkwall. Viscount Dumar of Kirkwall is alive, Knight-Commander Stannard is not.  
> The circumstances leading to Bethany being at the Conclave are broadly those outlined in my oneshot "Threnodies". This is, however, my separate modern AU, not the canon-setting used for that oneshot, which means amongst other things that Bethany never did meet Warden Amell (who's dead or tranquil in this continuity).
> 
> I was disappointed with the strength and cleverness of the opposition posed by Corypheus, and the ease with which the Inquisition managed to accomplish all their aims. In keeping with the -- I believe -- fairly realistic modern setting, I'll try to make the struggle seem more real. 
> 
> The pairing is Hawkecest. If you're no fan of that, feel free to think of them as stepsiblings or whatever or, you know, just skip the relevant parts.
> 
> The opening quote is from Tito's aria "Se all'impero" from Mozart's opera La Clemenza di Tito. Rough translation: _"If, to rule, oh dear gods, / a harsh heart is required / then take from me the empire / or give me another heart."_ The awesome cover image was made by my dear friend Sumenya on deviantArt and is entitled "The Light Shall Lead Her".

 

> _Se all’impero, amici dei,_
> 
> _necessario è un cor severo_
> 
> _o togliete a me l’impero,_
> 
> _o me date un altro cor._

 

Over the village of Haven, a dark grey helicopter of the Royal Ferelden Air Force took flight.

How long had it been now?, Hawke wondered, looking down at the snow-covered village below them. The last memory she could recall before the darkness, before … _it_  … had been of her audience with the Divine early in the morning. Outside, the sun stood at its zenith. Just over a day, then? Her watch had been taken from her, as had her phone, so there was no way to be sure. Just as long as … just as long as …

Oh, _damn it._ Her rambling strain of thought interrupted, Hawke’s attention returned to the pulsing pain emanating from her left palm. Part of it was physical, like ice in her veins and fire on her skin. That part of the pain was simple enough to bear, even weakened and wearied as she was. The other part … ripples in the Veil caused by a wellspring of living mana, if she had to describe it. It was sensory overload, nausea and electric shock all at once. Every now and then, she felt herself drifting, saw things – rather, ideas of things, or flickers of ideas of things – that didn’t belong. It felt as though she wasn’t quite _here_ nor _there_ , nor properly in-between, wherever that might be. Whatever that thing on her palm was, it was curving Reality around itself.

“Ma’am? Enchanter Hawke, are you listening to me?” Startled, Hawke looked up at the woman seated across from her, by the open door. There was little about her that did not serve to intimidate. If Templar uniforms were mildly disturbing in their rigid plainness, the Seeker’s perfectly-pressed black uniform took the cake, court-martialled it for seditious sweetness and had it executed. Her sidearm and the ceremonial dirk at her belt looked rather more worn than Hawke was comfortable with, and her posture was as straight and imperious as something very straight and imperious indeed. The Seeker’s permanent scowl had now chosen her as its next victim.

“Ah … I’m sorry. I was … distracted. Please, you were saying?”

The Seeker’s scowl only deepened. Hawke told herself that the woman had been nothing but fair to her, even removing her handcuffs, and that some people were just naturally grim. It didn’t help much. “The scouting parties last checked in at 1050 respectively 1115 hours,” the Seeker shouted over the noise of the helicopter’s engines. “They are currently presumed KIA. The whole area is overrun.”

Hawke glanced down at the ground beneath them. The craggy slopes of the Frostbacks flew past like water. “What if they’re still alive?”

“Then we’ll find them on the way up. We are going to require some additional firepower one way or the other, if we are to get you to the Temple safely. We are approaching the FOB now, that’s the closest landing site. Unless you want to abseil into the Temple, we’ll have to make the rest of the way on foot.” Turning briefly to look out of the door, the Seeker then sharply rapped against the door to the cockpit. A light tremor went through the helicopter as it descended.

“I … think I prefer that,” Hawke managed to say, holding on to her seat. She wasn’t used to losing her balance, but it was a lot harder to maintain a sense of the Earth’s gravitational pull when you weren’t sure which direction the Earth was in. “What’s the situation near the Temple?”

“I know as much as you do. The volunteers that found you were the last scouting party before we had to retreat down the mountain. Everything we’ve sent up to the summit, we’ve lost contact with soon after, and we’re still trying to access satellite imagery. In all likelihood, demons are thick on the ground.”

“Maker above … what on Earth could have caused this? A thaumic bomb?”

“Possible. It doesn’t match the effects of any kind of thaumic weapon I have ever heard of. We are trying to get our hands on an expert from the White Spire, Orlesian missile command or the ITEA. For now, we’re treating it as an unspecified arcane calamity. What matters is that we get that Breach closed, soon.”

Hawke looked down at the mark on her hand. It was pulsating with mana and otherworldly light, sending jagged shocks through her arm every time it did so. And the Breach was still growing minute by minute. “Do you really think I can help?”

The Seeker gave her a long, hard look. The helicopter touched down at the forward camp, raising dust and snow around it. “I don’t know,” the woman eventually shouted over the furious flapping of the rotors. “But every time the Breach expands, so does the mark upon your hand. There is some kind of sympathetic relationship between them. Maybe you’ve got a tiny rift growing inside you, maybe it’s some kind of scar. No matter what it is, you’re our best bet. Unless you have a better idea?”

The forward operating base was located in what had been a small alpine blockhouse along the road leading up to the Temple, until debris from the explosion had blown off the roof. A small, relatively even area had been cleared to allow helicopters to land, and small groups of mercenaries, Templars and policemen were lounging around the site. As Seeker Pentaghast led Hawke to the hut, she could feel their glares on her, saw their dark looks. Those men and women had found their culprit.

Inside the blockhouse, or what remained of it, a rudimentary command centre had been established. Power cables connected a small, loud generator placed outside to an array of laptops and radios around the hut. As they entered, a redheaded woman in a light grey duffle coat rose looked up from her screens to greet them. There was something familiar about her, and particularly about that heavy Orlesian accent of hers, that Hawke couldn’t quite place. “Good to see you. Did you get through alright?”

Clearly, Seeker Pentaghast had no time for pleasantries. “Give me a status report. What’s the latest position of our scouts?”

If the other woman was piqued, she didn’t show it. Hawke suspected that the Seeker used this sort of tone with everyone. “We’ve lost contact with a section of volunteers we sent to scout along one of the hiking paths, and another group containing,” and here she threw a quick glance at Hawke, “our special associates along the main road. The commander went off looking for them ten minutes ago, and hasn’t reported in since.”

“Then we’ll have to rendezvous with them on the way up. Getting Miss Hawke here to the Temple is our top priority now. If we head along the main road, we can pick up the commander and one of the scouting parties along the way.”

“That’s where the demons will be strongest,” the redhead pointed out. “There’s another way, the hiking path that Knight-Corporal Trevelyan’s group took. It reconnects with the main road just short of the Temple ruins. That way, you can slip past the majority of enemy forces.” For a moment, the Seeker seemed conflicted. “The commander took almost an entire platoon with him, and the apostate is quite capable himself. With any luck, you’ll meet near the Temple.”

“An apostate?,” Hawke echoed.

The woman shrugged. “Aren’t all of you apostates, these days? We do need all the help we can get. Anyway, which will it be – the main road or the hiking path?”

Hawke glanced at the Seeker. How odd to think that an hour ago she had been kneeling on the floor in a damp cellar, her hands and feet bound. “The hiking path does sound like it’ll be safer. And someone needs to find out what happened to the scouting party there, right?”

For an instant, Seeker Pentaghast glared at her, then scoffed. “Very well. Leliana, keep me appraised of any news from the commander. We will try and assist as needed, but we can’t get tied down in fighting.”

“You think I should send some reinforcements after them? There’s a battalion of RFA paras due to arrive in an hour, but until then I can send some of my people in the chopper.”

“A handful of your agents won’t make much of a difference. The commander and I will handle it. You sit tight here and try to get some solid satellite data for us.”

“Will do. Oh, just a sec.” She skipped over to her workstation and rummaged around in a mess of keyboards, mice and cables for a moment before producing a gun and handing it to Hawke. “Here, take this. Magic or not, a bit of firepower never hurt anyone. Well, you know what I mean.”

Hawke found herself staring at the pistol. There was no denying that she had killed people before, more than she cared to admit. And demons – well, demons weren’t even people, were they? But she had always done so with magic. A gift the Maker had given her to help, not an implement made for murder. “That’s … not really my thing,” she managed to say, even as the Seeker snorted with distaste.

“Take it anyway. It would be the act of a suicide to go up there unarmed.”

“Do it. We need to get going. You’ve got my frequency?”

“I do. Maker go with you.”

“And with you.”

Hesitantly, Hawke shoved the gun in her trousers’ waistband. That’s how they did it on the telly, wasn’t it? The Seeker beckoned her to follow, and silently they began their long walk up the mountain. Once they left the FOB and the main road up to the Temple behind, the snow soon reached up to their knees. All the time, the Breach stood above them, bathing the mountain in an unearthly green light.

“Keep your guard up,” the Seeker warned her when she briefly turned around to look down at the valley (and quietly discard the gun into the snow). Scarcely anything seemed to have been spared by the explosion. “The demons we are dealing with are cunning, and not above ambushing us.” She scoffed. “I would have thought … well. With your experiences from Kirkwall …”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Four years? That’s when the Circle fell.”

But that had been different, Hawke thought to herself. There had been no choice about fighting then, and others, old friends and companions, watching her back. After that? She’d been staying out of trouble. The handful of blood mages and violent apostates she’d brought in with the MCIS hardly counted, her handler had done most of the work on that. No, the last time she had fought in earnest had been years ago, in the darkest alleys and hovels of Kirkwall’s Lowtown, trying to distil some order from the chaos. At least, that had been the justification. Now, she wasn’t sure just which side they had been on. She swallowed, briefly touched the old, frayed red silk scarf around her neck. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

It did not take long for them to encounter opposition. The Seeker noticed them first, stopping Hawke in her tracks with an outstretched arm. “Shades, three of them. Should be trivial enough.” She quickly surveyed the area. The shades, shambling, shapeless creatures, had not noticed them yet, and wafted about a half-overturned fir tree further along the path. “I’ll get their attention,” the Seeker decided. “You, do your magic.”

Get their … before Hawke could finish the thought, Seeker Pentaghast had drawn her handgun and stomped off in the direction of the demons. ‘Getting their attention’ turned out to involve simply approaching the shades and opening fire. Hurriedly, Hawke followed, raised her aching hands and gathered her mana. One of the shades reached out for the Seeker, even as her bullets tore through its flesh and cut its hide to rags – _Winter’s Grasp!_ A thin layer of ice spread across the shade’s hide, and, hopefully, froze whatever flowed in its veins as it slowly ground to a halt …

Pentaghast’s next shot stroke true, and shattered the shade into a thousand crystalline pieces.

By now, however, its brethren had caught up to them, one going after the Seeker, the other … where was the other? … she had a terrible suspicion that it was right behind her. _Fireball._

A mangled whine told her that it had, indeed, been right behind her. Whirling around, she found herself face-to-slime with a brightly burning shade. The flames rolling up its hide did not seem to concern it, as it lunged forwards at her. Slightly startled, Hawke stumbled backwards, tripped over something buried in the snow and fell. Oh, she did _not_ need this right now.

She narrowly avoided the swipe of a burning claw, tried to regain her concentration. Supposing the demon weighed around sixty kilograms, the force required was … oh, screw this. With rather more force than would have been strictly necessary, Hawke reached out and cast Fist of the Maker.

The spell almost knocked the air out of her, but more importantly resulted in the shade being lifted off the ground for a few moments, before slamming back onto it. Even with the thick snow cushioning its fall, Hawke had to wipe bits of demonic essence of her clothes before turning to see how the Seeker was doing.

Having concluded that her pistol did not do the demons much harm, Seeker Pentaghast had drawn the dirk at her waist. Hawke wasn’t sure if she was surprised to see that, rather than the ceremonial weapons the Templars wore with their uniforms, this dagger was visibly sharp and practical. The Seeker seemed to fire, reload and thrust at the shade all in the same movement, and it was over within a blur.

Hawke rose to her feet, patting some of the snow off her coat. “Glad that’s over.”

The Seeker gave her an incredulous glance. “They were mere shades, and only three of them. There are thousands of demons out there. It is not even close to ‘over’.”

Biting her lips, she nodded. There was a brief pause. Then, Seeker Pentaghast snorted and resumed the hike up the mountain path. The area was densely forested, and with each of their steps, snow-laden tree branches dropped their loads.

It did not take long until they reached the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, now reduced to its foundations, and with it, the sounds of fighting. To the crackle of a machine gun, the Seeker and Hawke broke into a run. The roar of a demon, frantically shouted commands.

They left the treeline behind to find what might once have been a place for weary hikers to rest their legs. Now, it was a battleground. A motley squad of volunteers had set up a haphazard defensive position, but it was apparent that they were barely holding even as tens of demons were felled by gunfire and lightning bolts. Opposite it, just a few metres away, was … something. Her eyes told Hawke that it was like a tear had opened in the air, surrounded by wafts of green light. Her magic, and the mark on her hand, told her it was a piece of the Fade come into this world. Like it was both there and not there. _But that’s impossible … oh, sweet Maker, is that what the Breach is like?_ Mesmerised, Hawke raised her marked hand at it, and felt an ache, like a magnetic pull, drawing her towards the tear …

Pentaghast grabbed her by her arm, and quickly the Seeker and Hawke made their way to the soldiers’ position, dropping into cover behind what looked like a snow-covered park bench strengthened by sleeping bags. One of the fighters, by appearance the only human amongst them, hurried to their side. Hawke barely recognised the familiar Templar uniform under the splatters of blood and demonic essence as he threw a haphazard salute. “Ser, Knight-Corporal Trevelyan! We were scouting the side paths when that thing opened up an hour ago, demons have been pouring out like we’re handing out freebies ever since. Are you our backup?”

Reloading her gun, the Seeker ignored his question to take a few pot-shots over the bench. “We need to break through to the Temple,” she shouted over the roar of the guns and the demons. “Can we count on your assistance to get there? It is vital that the prisoner here get to the Breach in one piece.”

She blushed at that, and avoided the Templar’s glance. “Not sure how we’ll do that, ser, but we’ll bloody well try. Hey, Lavellan! How’s our ammo?”

“What do you ask me for?,” a Dalish elf to the side yelled back, even as she yanked her rifle around to land a bullet in a shade’s head, or rather, what would have been its head if it were a mortal. “Low, I guess. Won’t be keeping for long, at the rate they’re coming for us, that’s for sure.”

“I’m a mage,” Hawke pointed out. “Bullets seem to go right through those things, but maybe if I set up a Wall of Fire around the tear …”

“Handgun bullets, you mean? We’ve been doing fine with rifle rounds. Still, you think it’ll help? Be my guest. Adaar here,” he thumped at an intimidatingly tall ox- _Qunari_ woman behind him, who seemed to be taking the opportunity for a quick lyrium potion, “already tried something like that, but she couldn’t keep it up for long. Maybe if you two work together, we could contain them, buy us some time.”

Hawke glanced at the Seeker, who nodded her approval. “Do it.”

Staying in cover, she hurried over to the Qunari. “How’s your mana?,” she asked, trying to formulate a plan. It looked as if demons were appearing out of thin air every few seconds in a wide radius around the centre of the rift. How large would their barrier have to be? Could the demons appear up in the air, or were they bound to the ground? _They’ve got mass, stupid. You can deal with them if they have mass._

The Qunari looked up at her with some surprise. “I … about fifty per cent, maybe?”

“How many kilothaums?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nevermind then.” Likely a hedge mage, then, Hawke thought. She had been lucky, but she’d heard stories of some apostates being trained with grimoires dating all the way back to the Fourth Blight. “You think you’re good to go?”

“Yes. I heard what Ser Trevelyan said, and I shall do my utmost. I will take the left side, like this?”

Hawke followed the Qunari’s gesture and nodded. “Fine by me. On three …”

“Lavellan, Cadash!,” the Templar shouted at his comrades, “covering fire!”

On the count of three, the two mages jumped from their cover, and at once set to encircle the rift in a ring of fire. What demons attempted to cross out of the circle were quickly picked off by Lavellan or Cadash, and for a brief moment at least there was no demon to be seen. Rising to her feet, the Seeker waved at the others to follow. “Let’s move while they’re occupied!”

“Oh, for … grab your gear and move it, guys!”

As the soldiers ran for it, Hawke kept an eye on the circle of fire. It was holding the demons in, but only just. Biting her lip, she glanced at the rift. It was a bit like a black hole, wasn’t it? Only except of leading who knows where, it led to the Fade. Maybe she could … well, it was worth a try, at least. Raising her hands, focusing, Hawke took a deep breath and focused on the rift. From the way it felt, it had no mass of its own, and she had not expected it to. Still, the air, the ground around it … finding what she had sought a grim smile appeared on her face. She raised her hands to perform the required gestures, her thoughts channelled mana, and she cast Pull of the Abyss.

Or would have, anyway.

Her left hand lit up like a lantern as she raised it towards the rift. The rift seized on it, as though it was attempting to swallow her whole, and _something_ entered her body. It was not mana, not as she understood it, but it was similar, in a sense. It was the difference between … what was this? It was what the ocean was to a glass of water, or a lucid dream to a movie, or a Qunari curry to a Fereldan pie. The last comparison was, perhaps, the most appropriate, for the blood in her veins seemed to have caught on fire. Hawke screamed. Her legs gave out under her, but she barely noticed as she tried to remove her hand from the rift, as every cell in her body seemed to burst under the deluge of otherworldly energy –

And then, it was over. Her hand clutched to her chest as the pain subsided, Hawke raised her gaze at the rift. A faint shimmer of Veilgleam still stood in the air, but even now she could feel the Veil mending its tears.

Slowly, the others stepped to her side, the elf Lavellan helped her to her feet. “Praise the Maker … He smiles upon us still,” Trevelyan whispered, going down on one knee.

“You did it …,” said the Seeker, quietly. “You closed a rift. So you _can_ help us …”

When she attempted to reply, a violent cough interrupted her. “That wasn’t me,” she rasped, once she had recovered. “I have no idea what happened there. It’s the mark …”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. You will learn to control it. Lessen the pain. I am sure of it. What’s important is that we now have a way to fight back and, hopefully, close the Breach. Through you, the Maker walks with us.”

Hawke steadied herself, took a deep breath. After that brief initial shock, her body did not hurt, barring her hand, nor did her mind. “I pray you are right, ser.”

The Seeker looked up at the Breach in the sky. “It is all the more urgent that we get to the Breach. I hope our people up there are alright. Trevelyan, you and the dwarf take point.” With this, they gathered the rest of their gear and resumed their long hike up the mountain.

They walked in each other’s footsteps; even so, they made slow progress through the thick cover of snow, Hawke walking in the group’s middle between the Templar Trevelyan and the elf, Lavellan. “You’re the woman we pulled out of the Fade, aren’t you?,” the elf eventually asked with little candour. “The survivor.”

“You were there?”

“The shem and I, yeah. First on the scene. No need to thank us, after what you did to that rift there we’re more than even.”

“Still, thanks.” Hawke paused. “So, uh, you’re Dalish?”

“Did the attitude give me away, ma’am? I’m real Dalish alright, not like those flatears who paint _vallaslin_ on their faces and claim they’re one with nature. Clan Lavellan.”

“I … I didn’t mean to be rude. I had a very good friend who was Dalish. If I may ask, what brought you to the conclave?”

“You mean what’s a Dalish doing mingling with all your human nobs? Keeping an eye on them, mostly. Get too many shemlen in one place, usually means shit’s about to hit the fan. And since shem politicians like to wave their pricks around, that hurts the clans. So we like to be prepared. Lavellan, at least. Won’t hear many other _elvhen_ care about human politics.”

“So … you were a spy?”

She laughed. “I guess? None of that cloak and dagger stuff, I’m afraid. Not really doing the whole Jeannette la Bonde thing. It’s mostly just sitting around a lot and sending a few messages home when interesting stuff happens. Besides, I’m not the only one. Cadash there’s Carta, and he’s got the missing fingers to prove it. Mages and Templars fighting means a lot of the blue stuff, which means a lot of dwarves are suddenly very rich, and the Carta would like to keep it that way. And the big girl behind me’s a Qunari spy, plotting to make us all into mindless servants of the Qun.”

“That is not true,” the Qunari mage responded with calm indignation, and to the sound of quiet sniggering from Trevelyan and Cadash up front, “And I do not know how I have given you cause to think so. I am a …”

“Yes, yes, a merc, we get it. Don’t mind her, ma’am, she’s a bit slow on the uptake as regards these things. Anyhow, that’s why we didn’t end up as demon-fodder. The nobs at the Temple wouldn’t let us ordinary folk in, and look where that got them.”

“That’s rather macabre,” Trevelyan chided from up front. “A lot of people died up there.”

“We didn’t,” the elf pointed out. “Sucks to be one of those guys, but I’m not going to be all mopey about not being a perfectly well-done hunk of elf steak.”

“I prefer my elves bloody,” the dwarf Cadash said. “Keeps the flavour intact.”

“Not me, though!,” Lavellan cheerfully replied. “Far too stringy.”

Seeker Pentaghast snorted. “Cut the chatter. We’re in enemy territory.”

Hawke wasn’t sure the demons were listening in on them, but no one dared to push their luck. The Seeker was in a foul mood, not that she could blame her.

Shortly afterwards, the hiking path rejoinder the main road. Most of the area around the Temple of Sacred Ashes had been closed off behind a security cordon for the Conclave, but even so the road was lined with abandoned vehicles in various states of ruin. Between them, demons, but with their efforts joined with those of Trevelyan’s squad, they continued to make good progress. All along, they found evidence of another group that had followed their path upwards: footsteps in the snow, empty casings, cigarette butts. Each time they chanced upon further evidence of the other scouts’ group, the Seeker urged them to hurry.

Thus, and through the benefit of the road, it took them less than half an hour until they discovered the next rift in the Fade, and with it the next group of scouts, beset by demons. As they hurried to join the fight, and Hawke prepared her first spells, she recognised her surroundings as the remains of what had been the first part of the Temple complex, a guesthouse for pilgrims and, lately, some of the less important observers to the Conclave. This was where Hawke’s quarters would have been, if not for her family name … Now, though, the guesthouse had been ruined to its foundations. With every step, shards of glass from the building’s façade cracked under her boots. The rift had opened up in the middle of the refectory, and the surviving scouts were using sundered, overturned tables as rudimentary cover and barricades. A handful of corpses had been laid out behind the remains of a stainless steel buffet, and some distance from them, the wounded were being cared for. Even so, Hawke thought, the remaining men did not look overly desperate, or frightened – only tired. Shards of ice suggested the presence of a mage among them, though there was no time to examine the Veil in detail.

Instead, she stepped forwards, raised her hand – focused on the rift –

This time, she was prepared for the magical shock that entered her arm as the mark on her palm appeared to be swallowed by the Fade. Even so, it knocked the air out of her lungs and made her blood boil. Grinding her teeth, she managed to keep her hand steady. She felt the Veil bending around her, mending itself, reasserting its reality – and then it was done.

Shaken, Hawke took a step back and looked up at the sundered sky. The Breach seemed to grow by the minute, each time sending ripples of energy into her – into the mark. Already, it seemed to eclipse the sun, bathing the snowy peaks of the Frostbacks in an eerie green. The second time had been easier than the first, but still …

“Fascinating,” an unfamiliar voice said beside her. She looked down to find a bald-headed elf in a worn brown jumper standing next to her. “May I?” Without waiting for a reply, he took her left arm by the wrist and inspected the mark. “It is still growing, unfortunately. But it is a good thing that you were able to seal the rift. I had hoped as much. Do you know how you do it?”

“I … no. It just sort of happens. It’s like I’m reaching into the Fade …”

“And you would be the authority on that, I imagine. We live in interesting times, don’t you agree?” A smile appeared on his face. “Apologies. My manners are a bit rusty. My name is Solas.” He reached out his hand.

“Hawke,” she replied, shaking it briefly. “You, er, seem to know a lot about this mark?”

“I _have_ studied it, however briefly …”

The _other_ voice was rather more familiar. “What he means by that is that he kept it from killing you while you slept.”

  It would have been difficult to put her reaction to paper. She turned to face the voice with shocked stiffness, a lump in her throat the size of the Frostbacks. “Varric …,” she aspirated, “Blessed Andraste, what on earth are you doing here?”

The dwarf had stepped out from behind the cover of an overturned dining table and nonchalantly strolled towards them, his darling old repeating crossbow shouldered. Despite the cold, he was wearing his customary coat and open shirt, and had a wide grin on his face. The years had been kind to him. “It’s good to see you too. It’s been a while … Sunshine.”

It was like a spell had been broken. Forgotten was the jaded cynicism she had acquired since Kirkwall, forgotten were the Breach and the Divine. Bethany Hawke giggled like a young girl, dropped to one knee and embraced the dwarf. “Sweet Maker, it’s been so long … I never thought I’d see you again.”

He patted her back. “And right back at you. You know I’ve been trying to contact you? You kinda dropped off the radar after Kirkwall.”

Bethany bit her lip. Their flight from Kirkwall … that was not a thing she remembered with much fondness. They had been together, at first. All had taken part in the revolt, whether by choice or not, and all except for dear Aveline had had to flee the Chantry’s retribution. She still recalled the midnight meeting in Viscount Dumar’s office, all of them still weary and bloodied from the fighting. The viscount had offered them sherry, she recalled. Who drank sherry after such a battle? At that time, they had been united, but once they had left Kirkwall’s borders behind, Fenris had left, and Isabella had taken her ship north again. Merrill had gone who-knew-where, gone back to hiding in archives and museums once again. Then Anders had disappeared one night, to everyone’s relief. Even so, Varric had gone after him, and then only the two of them had been left.

That, of course, had not ended well.   

“I was hiding out,” she replied, rather lamely. “I … spent some time at Redcliffe. Giving a hand here and there, you know. I was here on the Grand Enchanter’s orders. Celebrity endorsement and all that, I guess.”

The dwarf snorted. “I hear you. Anyway, it’s good to see you.”

Seeker Pentaghast had joined them after seeing to the soldiers. “I didn’t expect to find you here, Varric,” she scolded. “You should have told me.”

“Really, Seeker? I distinctly remember you telling me to make myself useful.”

The Seeker snorted. “Need I remind you that you are still technically my prisoner?”

“Hey, you got to play the hand you’ve been dealt. Now, I think there’s a giant hole in the sky that needs closing?”

“Sooner would be better,” Solas agreed. “Has the commander given the order to march yet?”

Another familiar voice replied from behind her. “He has. We’re leaving a squad to watch over the wounded, but we can’t stop here.” Bethany froze. That was a voice she had not heard in a long time. Or hoped to hear. They’d gotten along alright, Bethany told herself, they’d been colleagues and partners for six years.  He’d saved her life, once. And yet … on the back of her neck, an old scar, long healed, seemed to open and burn again, the sole remnant of a wound inflicted long ago. Well, self-inflicted, in a sense.

Taking a deep breath, she turned around, trying to keep her face expressionless. “Knight-Commander,” Bethany said, carefully controlled. “It’s … been a while.”

Ser Cullen had not been unchanged by the last three years. Dark rings stood under his eyes, which were aflame with grim determination. He still – no, he _didn’t._ This was probably the first time she had ever seen him in civilian clothing. Even so, the way he wore his overcoat and the roughed-up suit beneath it looked impossibly uniform-like.

Though he did not look surprised, he avoided her gaze. “Enchanter Hawke. It’s, uh … been quite a while, hasn’t it?,” he echoed back at her.

“It has, hasn’t it.”

“Quite.” He cleared his throat. Varric had to turn away to hide his sniggering. “Anyway, we’ve got some idea of where ground zero was. From what you did to that rift earlier, I imagine we’re trying to get you there. We can march at your command.”

The Seeker nodded. “We can’t afford to linger here. Have them form up.”

“They _are_ volunteers, but I’ll get them moving. Somehow. Hawke.” The Templar turned away.

“Well,” Varric commented, “that wasn’t awkward at all.”

“We didn’t part on the best of terms, not exactly. I’m just glad he didn’t yell at me. Maker knows he has good reason to.”

With a few shouted command, Ser Cullen managed to form the survivors up in two files, one on each side of the road. Bethany had little appreciation for military drill, despite having been under Templar protection for six years. Much of it seemed pointless. Marian had served, of course, but she had never talked about her time in the army. Even so, despite her lack of understanding, it was obvious to Bethany that few of the survivors had much military experience, either: excepting a handful of low-ranked Templars, most of them appeared to be Haven police or local volunteers. Most of them carried handguns of some description. Bethany knew enough about guns from Marian to know that Lavellan with her hunting rifle and Cadash with his machine gun were the only ones appropriately armed.

She filed in between Varric and Solas, and Ser Cullen shouted something along the lines of ‘Without step, for-WARD!’. Slowly, the two columns began to move. Ahead of them, the ruins of the main Temple were already clearly visible against the Breach. Of the centuries-old edifice, only the foundations, piles of rubble and a few towering, crumbling arches remained. It nearly brought a tear to Bethany’s eyes. She hadn’t been here for long – just a few weeks, in the run-up to the Conclave. And yet … she barely remembered the last few days. Only the Divine, radiating holy purpose wherever she had gone. She had been so beautiful, so kind. Somehow, Bethany knew, her forgiveness counted for more than twenty years of doubt and guilt. Through her, Andraste Herself had spoken to her.

And yet, the Maker had seen fit to take Justinia away, and everyone else who had been at the Temple, excepting herself, poor sinner that she was. Where was the justice in that?

“So,” Solas asked after a while, “by all reasonable accounts, you entered the Fade in the flesh. How much of it do you remember?”

Bethany frowned, glanced over her shoulder. “People keep saying that. I always thought the ancient magisters who brought the Blight were the only ones to ever physically enter the Fade.” She blushed a little. “And I did _not_ use blood magic, I swear it!”

The elf chuckled. “I did not mean to suggest you had. But if you didn’t, then someone else did. The explosion was not caused by the Breach, it fuelled it. There is more power in the sudden, violent deaths of so many than in any blood magic ritual I know of. Even so, it should not have sufficed to tear open the sky, and send you into the Fade.”

“Something to ponder then,” Varric said. “Later.”

Bethany bit her lip. What Solas had said made sense. All magic was, strictly speaking, endothermic. To lift a rock in the air by a metre, the same energy had to be expended as if one lifted it by hand. Normally, a mage drew that energy from the Fade, limited only by her mana and any lyrium pills she may have taken beforehand. A blood mage, on the other hand, drew his power from the very life of his victims, bypassing the Fade entirely. All magic, however, reshaped the Veil around it. She could not even begin to comprehend the amount of energy that must have been required to tear the Veil asunder, send a person to the Fade in the flesh. According to the ancient histories, the magisters who became the first Darkspawn had sacrificed thousands of slaves and tons of lyrium to commit their sacrilege, and even they had not torn open the sky. There had to be some sort of focus, some sort of trick. Maybe the explosion had been a primer, so to speak, to get the Veil to tear itself apart?

She realised she was thinking of all those who had been lost – including the Divine – as fuel already. It was enough to send a shiver down her spine. _That’s how a blood mage thinks._ The magisters, like that Corypheus monster from the Warden prison, had thought nothing of scaling the walls of the Golden City across a mountain of corpses.

They entered the remains of the Temple. Bethany was hard-put to make out the two crumbling pillars they marched between as the remains of the main portal. What may have happened to the Sacred Ashes? Surely the Maker would not have suffered the mortal remnants of His beloved to be profaned thus.

But He had not saved Justinia, either.

Something _cracked_ beneath her feet. Bethany looked down. It looked like wood, burned to charcoal … wood with fingers. She froze. “Don’t look, Sunshine,” Varric told her. It was hard not to. The … thing blended into the ashes and the rubble around it, but one could still make out the shape of a human body. Taking a deep breath, Bethany looked up. That pile of rubble – that broken pillar – that shattered statue … now, she could see the people in them, still trapped in their last poses. Some were still burning, or glowing with embers. Oh, Maker … this was just like those pictures she had seen of bombed-out Vyrantium at the end of the Great War, wasn’t it? Like someone had detonated a thaumic bomb at the Temple. Except this was not some grainy old monochrome photograph, but gruesome death in glorious colour and high definition.

“Don’t worry, Sunshine. We’ll make whoever did this pay.” Bethany bit her lip, reached for the faded red neckerchief, then stopped herself.

Ahead of them, Ser Cullen gave the order to halt. The Breach was now almost directly above their heads. Following a curious Varric, Bethany headed to the front of the column, where Ser Cullen and Seeker Pentaghast were inspecting the situation. Rubble had blocked the passage along the central nave of the Temple. Even so, one could plainly see the rift that had opened up where the sanctum had been, simply by following the whirlwind-like vortex reaching down from the Breach. “We’ll have to go around,” Cullen was saying as they approached.

The Seeker glanced at her. “No time. The Breach is growing by the minute, and new rifts are opening up all over Thedas. We need to do this now. A small party will be able to scale the rubble. Hawke, Varric and Solas go with me, Trevelyan’s team takes the right. The rest of you will have to find another way and support us as best you can.”

There was a small pause, then Cullen nodded. “As you say, Seeker. May the Maker go with you.”

“And with you. Let’s get moving.”

As Ser Cullen lead his remaining scouts to find a way around the obstruction, the Seeker began to scale the rubble. The others followed in her footsteps, carefully avoiding loose stones. The pile was barely two metres tall, but with every two steps forwards, they seemed to be sliding one and a half step back. By the time Bethany reached the ridge at the top of it, she was breathing hard. The way down, thankfully, was considerably easier, due to a conveniently-toppled pillar.

And then, they stood before the rift, the original rift.

The innermost sanctum of the Temple, Bethany had heard, was located below the ground, in a cavernous chapel hewn into the mountain. She had never been there herself. It was sacrilege for the impure, or unrepentant sinners, to enter there. After last morning, however, after Her Perfection had absolved her … well, that was beside the point, wasn’t it? They had to get down there, sacrilege or not.

Part of the balustrade on the upper floor was still standing. Cullen’s group had found a way up there, apparently, and were taking up positions behind it. She briefly caught his eye, he looked focused and calm. Well, good for him. To their right, Trevelyan’s group of volunteers had followed them across the rubble. Lavellan glanced at the rift and levelled her worn old hunting rifle.

“I don’t see any demons,” Bethany said, shivering.

Varric snorted. “Bet you ten to one it’ll throw a pride demon at us the moment we let our guard down.”

“I wouldn’t take that bet.”

Following the Seeker, they jumped down into the innermost sanctum, or what remained of it. Bethany wished she had her staff with her, but she’d thrown it away not long after Kirkwall. “Solas,” she called out, “are you sure closing this tear will also close the Breach?”

“It’s worth a try, is it not?”

“Encouraging.”

Behind them, Adaar bristled. “This place feels wrong.” Bethany could not help but agree. She could feel the frayed edges of the Veil around her, neither real nor unreal. A slight buzzing sound seemed to fill the air, and it did not take her long to find the source of it. Jagged spikes of bright red crystal protruded from the ground. The air was humming around them. They, too, were not properly here. “Varric,” she called out, “is that …”

“Red lyrium. Just like the stuff Meredith wore around her neck. What’s it doing here?” He scoffed. “Oh, bloody hell. Just don’t touch it, okay?” Bethany nodded. All raw lyrium was dangerous to handle. It radiated Fade energy. Stay near it too long, and your cancer risk shot through the roof. And the red stuff … she was steering clear of that, even in its processed form.

Slowly, weapons at the ready, they approached the rift. Already, she could feel it tugging at the mark on her hand. Bethany shared a look with the Seeker, who nodded. “Do it.”

She stepped forward and took a deep breath. Then, she raised her hand …

Something materialised behind her. “Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake …,” Varric muttered, even as the cry of “Pride demon!” was taken up by the others.

Bethany had fought pride demons before, though always at the side of Marian, and thus knew what was coming. She narrowly dodged the first lash of the roaring beast’s lightning whips. “Fire at will!,” someone shouted, but was already drowned out by the demon’s roar and the sound of dozens of magazines being emptied at it. Even so, the demon barely seemed to feel the rounds burying themselves in its hide as it turned towards Bethany …

“In the name of the Maker, fight me, beast!” The Seeker! She had drawn her pistol, but the hand she pointed at the demon was empty but for a bright golden shimmer. The demon halted in its tracks, looked over its spiked shoulder, then turned with the grace of a mountain and stormed towards Seeker Pentaghast. Oh, sweet Maker, there was no way that could end well …

Even as she thought this, however, the Seeker had dived to the side to avoid the first blow, coming to her feet again after a perfectly executed sideways roll. Well, colour her impressed. Bethany gathered herself and cast a Fireball at the demon. This, at least, it seemed to feel. Beside her, Solas opened into a barrage of ice spikes.

If one had asked her how long the battle lasted, Bethany would have guessed an hour, maybe two. Over and over, the demon seemed to lash out, at times taking two or three volunteers at once down. Over and over again, they hit it with spells and weapons until it finally went down. In truth, it took perhaps three minutes until the pride demon staggered, fell, and finally was banished. Stumbling a few steps backwards, Bethany tried to catch her breath. Oh, Maker, how much she had forgotten …

“Quickly now!,” someone shouted. “Close the rift, before more come through!”

Right, she thought, turning around. The rift was still pulsing with raw energy, and this time she could tell just by looking at it that it was safe to approach for the moment. Bethany took a deep breath and raised her hand.

It was all over in a flash. With the Fade, darkness enveloped her. There was an explosion, and then silence.

Except for the voice.

When she would later tell others about it, they would point out that she was delirious. That all sorts of things were happening around her, and that the human mind was treacherous and deceitful. None of it mattered. The woman’s voice was golden, if sound could have a colour, and it was burning with the fire of a thousand suns, if words could burn. It said:

_Fear not, for I am watchful. You have been chosen._

And then, darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:  
> 1) Thaumic weapons, in case you didn't get it, are this world's analogue to nukes. Current thaumic powers are: the Empire of Orlais (and, by extension, the Andrastian Chantry), the Tevene Republic, the Qun. The dwarves of Orzammar and Nevarra are both believed to possess thaumic weapons, but their arsenals (if they exist) are far smaller than those of their more powerful neighbours. A thaumic weapon was used in warfare only once, at the culmination of the Great War between the Allied powers and the Tevinter Imperium, when Templar commnandos smuggled the first-ever thaumic bomb into besieged Vyrantium. A second thaumic bomb, though improvised and significantly less powerful, was used by the renegade mage and activist The Anders Mage to destroy the Kirkwall Grand Chantry in 9:37. For those who don't know, the term thaumic derives from the Greek θαῦμα (thauma), meaning "miracle" or "wonder". It is, essentially, a technical term for magical energy. This is also where the unit of measure thaum (or, more commonly, kilothaum) comes from, which describes the strength of a mage's connection to the Fade, i.e. his present mana.
> 
> 2) Bethany is exhibiting very, very poor gun safety. Don't stick a gun in your waistband ... actually, if you do, you're probably doing the human genome a favour.
> 
> 3) Religion -- Andrastianism -- is a much more powerful force in this world than any form of Christianity is in most of the civilised world in real life (i.e., not the US). Fuelled by the presence of magic and the protection of the Orlesian empire, much of Southern and most of Northern Thedas still fervently believes in the Maker and His bride, with all the ills that come with that. In recent years, the downbreak of public order in much of Ferelden and Orlais has left the Chantry as one of the only institutions which can still inspire loyalty from a wide crosscut of the population, and a vital player in politics.
> 
> Whoever can tell me where the voice at the end takes its line from gets a biscuit.


	2. Founders come first

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written almost entirely in Japan, interestingly enough. Not sure if that made any significant change in my writing. I do know now, though, that I really want to see Bethany and Marian Hawke in yukatas. More notes at the end. Enjoy!

Her sleep was dreamless. A rare occurrence, if not unique. For once, she did not tirelessly stalk the endless wastes of the Fade, carefully avoiding other dreamers. Instead, she lay in darkness, listening to the sounds. At times, they were voices, whispering in languages she did not comprehend. Other times, she heard rushing water. Bells ringing. Eerie laughter. Her own heartbeat. Was this how non-mages dreamt? If so, she was more jealous than ever. It was … peaceful. She heard voices anyway, every other night. At least these did not approach her, tempt her with all the things she could never have. They seemed to be content to keep their distance, and let her listen.

Soon, she was making out individual voices, but by the time she was confident she had identified a single voice, it changed, split or merged with another, and she had to start all over again. Only one voice, soaring high above the others, remained consistent, that of a young woman full of cheer and joy. But she could not make out its words, either. What little she understood or thought to understand was nonsensical, like the misheard lyrics to a foreign song.

Bethany found that it did not truly _matter_ what they were saying. They left her alone, sleeping, listening. She could have stayed here forever.

And then she awoke, and was back in the Fade. It felt different, more solid. Clearer. She could feel the flow of the Fade energies, rather than just a vague presence. A compassionate spirit shew her a vision of her sister, meaning well. When she reached out to touch her, expecting an illusion of flesh, her hand went right through the mirage and dispelled it like mist. It was … heartening, in a sense. Marian was far from her reach, and that surely was a good thing. She just had to keep reminding herself of that.

She left the spirit after that, wandered off in a different direction. Some nights, when the hours stretched and her dreams would not end, she would walk in the direction of the Black City, just to pass the hours. She would, of course, never reach it, every step seemed to take it father away from it. Such was the Fade’s geography. Tonight, too, she walked and walked, passing through the realms of many greater and lesser demons. They let her pass unaccosted. She rarely had to deal with demons – those that haunted her usual dreams had choicer game to hunt, and her father’s training had left her mental barriers just strong enough to not be worth the effort. But whereas the demons normally ignored her, she felt she was distinctly being watched now.

Bethany looked out for the golden woman who had led her out of the Fade, but if she was a spirit, she didn’t show herself. If she strained her memory, she remembered a fight, and then a reassuring voice. The voice had been glorious, like the apparition from the Fade. In her heart she already knew that it was the same entity. She had acquired a guardian angel, it appeared.

And then she awoke, and was lying in a bed. Bethany opened her eyes, blinking against the bright sunlight from the window. Once she had adjusted to it, she found herself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. A woodcarver had been hired to decorate the room, apparently, and not told when to stop. What was this place? Slowly, she got out of the bed, looked around. The room was rustic, yet sterile in the way that only a hotel room can be. She glanced out of the window. The Frostbacks. Haven. And there – she shuddered. The Breach was still in the sky. She had failed, then. At least it didn’t seem to have grown much bigger, though that was a small consolation.

Bethany turned away from the window and walked across the room to check the door. It was unlocked. Clothes had been laid out on a low dresser – underwear, jeans, a plain white blouse, a jacket and a navy pea coat, all more or less in her size. Beside them, someone had put a mobile phone – not hers, but the kind with a small physical keyboard at the bottom, the kind you saw being used by politicians and CEOs. She checked the date. Maker, had she really slept for three days? After taking a quick shower in the adjoining bathroom, where stitching on the towels suggested they belonged to the _Chalet de St. Margret, Haven,_ Bethany got dressed, pocketed the phone on the suspicion that it had been left there for her and walked out into the corridor.

Following the signage, she made her way to the reception. A young elf girl in a page’s uniform was lounging behind the counter, reading. When she saw her, the girl startled, jumped to her feet and dropped her book. “My … my lady! I did not … you’re awake!” She unfroze herself and bowed. Deeply. “For… forgive my inattentiveness, Lady Herald. I am … just a humble servant, and, and, I wish to ask your blessing …”

Bethany looked over her shoulder to see if there was anyone standing behind her. There wasn’t. “I’m sorry,” she told the elf, “you … must be mistaking me for someone else.”

“There can be no mistake, my lady. You’re her, you’re the one who stopped the Breach from swallowing us all!” She flinched as though she had forgotten something. “Uh, the Lady Seeker asked to see you in the chantry once you were awake …”

She frowned. Hopefully, that would explain some things. What had the girl called her? Lady Herald? The young elf looked just about ready to take flight. With a murmured word of thanks, Bethany walked out of the hotel’s lobby.

Haven was a small village. Before the Blight, it had been home to one of the Frostbacks’ more isolated communities, stereotyped as backwards, reclusive and somewhat incestuous by their eastern neighbours (har, har). Then the Hero of Ferelden had discovered the Sacred Ashes of Blessed Andraste Herself, hidden away in the nearby ruins, and all of a sudden Haven had come out of the Blight not only with most of its population alive and intact, but also the centre of a newly-flourishing pilgrimage industry. Bethany had been told that Haven and the surrounding mountains had been named a national park to preserve its natural beauty; but even so a road and modern facilities had been erected to service the pilgrims, including hotels, restaurants, a clinic and a heliport, not to mention the inevitable array of souvenir shops.

Most of the latter had been driven away by the war, but the rest of Haven had been a bustle of activity in preparation of the Conclave. Now, the village was filled to the brim with the survivors of the catastrophe, and the soldiers and volunteers come to aid them.

And quite a few of them seemed to be staring at her.

Bethany kept her head down as she walked towards the chantry in the upper part of the village. They _were_ staring at her, no mistake there, and murmuring amongst themselves. She knew that by now the tale of her falling out of the Fade must have made the rounds, and that quite a few people must have seen her being led from her cell to the heliport by the Seeker. Even so, that did not account for the profound silence that had fallen over the people in the streets. As she approached the chantry, the crowds grew thicker than they had any right to be, but the moment she appeared a path opened for her.

She tried to ignore them.

Nevertheless, by the time she entered the welcome shelter of the chantry, her face matched the scarlet Chantry banners decorating the building. She took a moment to recover before proceeding down the empty nave. The original Haven chantry had been a wooden building from the early Towers Age, home to some heretical sect or other, but it had been burned down by the Hero of Ferelden when she had passed through the village on her quest for the Sacred Ashes. The new chantry building was simple, modern, and rather chilly, as these rooms tend to be. If not for the candles at her feet, Bethany would have had some trouble recognising Andraste in the abstract statue behind the pulpit. Behind the statue, a narrow door led into a backroom, some kind of sacristy, most likely. Wafts of an agitated argument could be heard through it.

 _“… a mage! And who vouches for her? Renegades and heathens, that’s who! You cannot seriously believe that woman is innocent! We_ know _she saw Justinia the morning of the attack …”_ A man. Elderly, perhaps. She did not recognise the voice. Bethany fought the urge to press her ear to the door, that was not how Things Were Done.

The other was that of the Seeker. “ _… which does not make her guilty. It is safe to say she had something to do with what happened, her mark is proof of that. But I do not believe she is behind this anymore than you or I.”_

 _“You have read the report, Chancellor,”_ said another woman’s voice. She’d heard this one before, Bethany knew, the Orlesian redhead from the FOB. And before that … in Lothering, maybe? Could it be? “ _Trevelyan and his group all attest seeing the spectre of a woman in the Fade behind her. You know who people have been saying she was. Andraste Herself.”_

There was a snort from the man, and the sound of something heavy being slammed on a table. “ _I will not stay here to listen to your heresies! The Chantry will not stand for this! I hope for your sakes that you’ll have come to your senses by the time I return.”_

The door was slammed open and a middle-aged man in the robes of a lay servant stormed out. He did not seem to notice her standing beside the door and strode past her out of the chantry. Well, she wasn’t making any friends these days, was she?

Taking a deep breath, Bethany knocked on the open door and stepped into the doorway. “You, er, asked to see me?”

For a moment, the corners of the Seeker’s mouth seemed to twitch upwards. “How much of that did you overhear? Nevermind, do come in.”

Hesitantly, Bethany stepped into the light. A pair of Templars stood guard inside. She tried not to notice them. Most of the sacristy’s furnishings had been removed, instead, a large folding table had been set up in its centre. One could scarcely see the large map of southern Thedas that had been rolled out on it under the heaps of documents, laptops, empty mugs and pizza boxes. The Seeker dismissed the Templars with a gesture. “Here, let me introduce you.” She pointed at a dark-skinned woman in an elegant business costume and a gold scarf, who had laid down her clipboard to shake Bethany’s hand. “This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, from Antiva. She used to be an aide to the Antivan ambassador to Orlais, before joining us.”

“Please, call me Josephine. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the Antivan told her with a smile that was entirely earnest, but also clearly under the firm control of her higher thought processes. “I’ve heard so much about you, Enchanter. Only good things, I assure you.”

Feeling slightly overwhelmed by that charm offensive, Bethany managed only a faint smile. “Er, it’s good to meet you, my lady. Josephine.”

“Moving on,” Seeker Pentaghast continued in a slightly strained voice, “you’ve already met Leliana. She …”

“… works in IT,” the redhead smoothly interrupted. She was wearing a bright yellow hoodie reading _A[hip, hip]_ Bethany didn’t quite get it. “My position there involves a degree of data compilation and network security. Best to leave it at that.”

“Leliana?,” Bethany echoed. Her eyes widened. Of course! Maker, how long had it been? “You were a lay sister at the Lothering chantry before the Blight, weren’t you? You used to tell stories to the affirmants …”

The woman’s smile deepened. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered. Dear Maker, it seems like forever! We’ll have to catch up …” Seeker Pentaghast gave a very pointed cough. “… some other time.” The wink Leliana gave her could have meant absolutely anything. Bethany distinctly felt that both Josephine and Leliana had a rather economical attitude to the truth.

“… and of course you’re already familiar with Commander Cullen.”

They shared a nod. Maker, it hadn’t used to be that awkward, had it?

“It’s, er, good to meet you all. To be honest, though, I’m not exactly sure what’s going on …”

Pentaghast snorted. “Who is, these days?”

Bethany bit her lip. “I know that I failed to close to Breach. And that the Chantry thinks I killed the Most Holy. And … the receptionist at the hotel, she called me ‘herald’.”

The Seeker and Lady Josephine shared a glance before the latter replied. “You may not have closed the Breach, but you managed to halt its growth. That buys us time. We’re not sure what exactly went wrong – Master Solas is looking into it. You may want to speak to him later on. In the meantime, I’m afraid we have more urgent problems to contend with.”

“More urgent than demons falling out of the sky?”

“Quite. For starters, Leliana is getting reports of rifts opening up all over Ferelden and southern Orlais. We’re counting over 600 confirmed reports, and rising. Both nations have deployed their armed forces to cordon off the rifts and protect their civilian population, but until you – that is, you personally – can go there to close them permanently, those are mere stopgap measures.”

“Add to that rebel forces limiting government access to some of the hardest-hit areas, and we’ve a death toll in the thousands that’s rising by the hour,” Cullen commented. “I’ve drawn up a list of priority rifts. Right now, the best thing we can do is make sure the major motorways are clear. I’m told Redcliffe is almost completely cut-off from supplies, and that’s before taking into account rifts inside the town itself.”

Bethany closed her eyes, tried to imagine what was happening out there. Imagine a rift like those on the mountain opening up on a crowded motorway in the middle of the rush hour … even if, by some miracle, drivers managed to brake in time, the road would be completely cut off. How much food did a town like Redcliffe need every day? And for that matter, how much electricity, how much water? Maybe the government could fly in supplies, but the last time she’d been in Redcliffe, the city had been controlled by her fellow mages and the Grand Enchanter, not the government. She had to get there, soon.

“I imagine that’s the bad news?”

“Pretty much. And then there’s the … other news.” That did _not_ sound like ‘good news’. “Almost all of the grand clerics were at the Conclave. With them and the Divine dead, the Chantry is in shambles. You’ve met Grand Chancellor Roderich on the way in – he’s the highest ecclesiastical authority left in Val Royeaux, and he’s not even a priest. The mood in the curia is decidedly against us. They think you’re a terrorist, and we heretics and schismatics for supporting you. My contacts in the Orlesian government tell me that Orlais follows the Chantry line, so we’ve no support from that direction. The coalition government in Denerim has yet to produce a unified statement, but I’m told the King is trying to get us his government’s support. In the meantime, however, we’re surrounded by enemies on all sides.”

“But I didn’t _do_ anything!,” Bethany protested. Even she could tell, however, that she was on thin ground there. She didn’t exactly remember much from before the explosion. Who could say what she had done – as a mage, there was always doubt. “I wouldn’t even know how.”

“We believe you,” Leliana said. “You’ve more than proven your good intentions, as far as I am concerned. Still, the facts are against you. I’ve been keeping a lid on your identity so far – we’ve enough trouble as it is without anyone knowing who you are. As far as the world is concerned, you’re a Mystery Woman capable of closing rifts. It’ll make people suspicious, but it’s better than everyone knowing you’re a Hawke. They’ll find out eventually, of course, but until then we’ll keep it between us.”

That did not sound very assuring. Bethany’s throat tightened. “I’ll go to Val Royeaux to stand trial, if that’s what it takes. I didn’t … I don’t think I did anything wrong. If I can help end this madness …” She broke off.

There was an awkward silence. Then, Cullen gave a slight cough. “I wouldn’t advise that. We need you here. And then there’s one other thing …”

Leliana grinned, and Bethany automatically took a step away from her. “The news about you are all over the Internet. In our darkest hour, a Mystery Woman with the power to close rifts falls out of the Fade, led by a spectral woman seen behind her? That’s the sort of thing legends are made out of. A lot of people are still sceptical, but there are those who have seen you close rifts and they’ve been very vocal. I’ve certainly not attempted to rein them in.”

“I’m not sure what that means …”

“It means that more and more people believe you were sent by the Maker. The woman they saw behind you, people believe, was Andraste. That makes you Her Herald, and the key to our salvation.”

The Herald of Andraste. Bethany wanted to protest, but could not get the words out. _I’m a mage,_ she thought. _I’m a sinner._ The very idea was absurd. Andraste had been perfect in every respect: beautiful, virtuous, pious, mundane, everything she was not. Bethany was abominable, the Chant was quite clear on that. The things she had done, the thoughts she had thought, and the desires she had succumbed to all compounded the accident of her birth.

Divine Justinia had forgiven her. That had been what she’d said, hadn’t it? _There is no sin that the Maker does not forgive you for._ She still did not understand how she could have said that. Justinia had forgiven her, yes, but Her Perfection had been _kind_ and _gracious_ and _inspired_  … her forgiveness was not the Maker’s, though she spoke in His name. For the Maker was a vengeful god. There could be no atonement for the things she had done, knowing they were wrong.

She could work with that. It was easier than the alternative.

But then there had been the voices, and the golden woman … Bethany glanced at the mark on her hand. If not for it, she realised, the Breach might still be spreading. She could see where one might get the idea from that she was some sort of saviour. The timing was impeccable.

Bethany looked up at the others. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is a lot to take in all at once.”

Josephine gave her a lenient smile. “Of course, we quite understand. Luckily for you, it’s not something we need to deal with immediately, though we will have to decide on an official position soon. Ish.”

Nodding, Cullen added: “In the meantime, you should have yourself looked at by our healers. You’ve been out for days, who knows what yet lingers.”

“No. She has to stay here. Hawke is as much part of this as any of us, and it would not do to exclude her from this council.”

“We shouldn’t strain her, Seeker. We need her at her best …”

“Uh, do I get a say in this? I’m pretty sure I’m alright …”

“Cassandra is right. We can’t treat her like she’s just another volunteer. She more than deserves a say in this. We can’t go having secrets from each other.”

“Very well, but I must insist that she see a healer presently. Now, I’ve been trying to set up a proper chain of command …”

“Uh, excuse me?”

Cullen paused, and all eyes turned back to Bethany. She still felt like an intruder. “I’m sure I appreciate everyone’s concern, and I’d like to help … whatever you’re doing, but who exactly … you know … are you?”

Josephine threw a surprised glance at Leliana. “Didn’t we say? I’m sure I said something.”

“I don’t think you did, Josie. I think Cassandra was dealing with this.”

There was a pause. Then, Seeker Pentaghast nodded and, with uncanny accuracy, removed a thin official-looking booklet from the heaps of paper on the table. Bethany glanced at the title page, it was called _Provisions attaining to the Seekers of Truth (J5.4 / 384a)_. “Most Holy did not go into the Conclave unprepared,” the Seeker said. “In the event that negotiations broke down, she sought to assure herself the Templars and mages would not tear this world apart, and she left instructions to her Hands.” The Seeker gave a wry smirk. “I think it’s fair to say negotiations have broken down.”

Leliana stepped to Pentaghast’s side. “Is that … I remember depositing the sealed original in a bank vault in Rialto last year. How did you get this copy?”

The title page was forcefully turned. Bethany recognised the sunburst seal of the Divine, and her signature at the bottom of the page. “Most Holy gave it to me the day she left for the Conclave. She made no provisions for the event of her demise, of course, but I don’t care what the lawyers will say about this. As far as I am concerned, this is holy writ.”

“Let me see,” Josephine said, pushing her way to the front to skim the first few articles. “Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

Bethany’s throat tightened. This did not sound good.

“This is no time for hesitation. In the name of the Maker, of Our Lady Andraste, and of Her late Perfection, Divine Justinia V, let it be known: one, that all attempts to return the Circle of Magi and the Templar Order to the fold of our Holy Mother Chantry have failed.”

Cullen shook his head in disbelief. “Maker, I hope you’re sure about this …”

The Seeker continued to read out the document. Her voice rose. “Two, that the Left and Right Hands of the Divine are charged with restoring the Maker’s peace to His world, using any means whatsoever they deem fit, that they shall be raised above all laws of man save those pertaining to the unity of our Holy Mother Chantry, and that any who refuse them aid and succour shall be attainted and accursed in the eyes of the Maker!”

Quietly, Bethany stepped forward, past a tense Leliana, until she stood by the Seeker’s side. Her heart was beating faster than before. A warming thought went through her head: _this is the Maker’s work._ She wasn’t quite sure where it came from, but she felt her back straighten nonetheless. What was it with Hawkes and making history? They always seemed to manage getting their fingers in somewhere.

“Three!,” Cassandra Pentaghast thundered. “That on this day, the twenty-first of Umbralis in the forty-first year of the Dragon Age, I declare the Inquisition reborn!”

There was a lengthy pause.

Leliana said: “Fine, but do you have to shout?”

 

 

After that, the meeting dissolved in a blur. A proclamation was set up, printed out and nailed to the chantry doors. Then, each went after their own business: Josephine and Leliana set to creating a rudimentary web presence, while Cassandra shouted at people until a notary and an accountant were found and Cullen addressed the volunteers that had assembled at Haven. That left Bethany without anything to do.

When she left the chantry, she found a small crowd had gathered outside to read the proclamation. An argument had broken out, but broke off when she stepped through the door. “What’s going on in there?,” a woman in the crowd asked her. “I don’t like the sound of this whole ‘Inquisition’ business.”        

Bethany’s throat tightened. She wasn’t really sure herself what exactly was going on, and she had not had time to give much thought to its rightness. Frankly, the idea that they were doing something wrong – as opposed to impractical, dangerous and mildly terrifying – had not yet entered her mind. _Of course_ it was right, it just … was? “I don’t know much about the details,” she told the crowd, “But the Inquisition – we – will be doing whatever we can to help get the world back to normal.”

It was a weak answer, she knew. If she remembered her history, there had been an Inquisition before, early in the history of the Chantry. Mage hunters? As she recalled, it had been split into the Templars and the Seekers of Truth at some point – likely with good reason. It was going to be … interesting, to say the least.

“What are you going to do about that hole in the sky, then?,” a man asked with some hostility. “There’s demons popping up all over the country, my cousin in Denerim says she was forced from her home by some!”

Bethany flinched a little. Maker, this hadn’t used to be so hard. She’d been a teacher and an MCIS investigator at the Kirkwall Circle, but three years on the run, a visit to the Fade and a night in captivity later she felt like a nervous wreck with a severe case of untreated agoraphobia. Just like her teenage years, come to think of it. “We’re working on it,” she said in what she hoped was a firm voice. “We’ve a few ideas on how to fix the Veil; until then, we’re going to do our best to work together with authorities to contain the demon threat and protect the people.” That had sounded pretty good, actually. At least, it seemed to satisfy the crowd enough to let her pass.

 Bethany wasn’t sure where to go, so she picked a direction at random and started walking. It did not take long until she found the elven apostate – Solas, was it? – seated on the veranda of a small café by an outdoors fireplace, a book in his hands and a steaming cup of tea before him. “Interesting read?,” she asked as she approached him.

Without any apparent surprise, the elf gingerly placed a bookmark at his page and set the book down on the table. Bethany twisted her neck to make out the title, it appeared to be a volume on the birth of the art trade in the Antivan Exaltations. Huh, not what she’d have expected. “Quite,” the elf said. “The author has some fascinating theories on patronage. I shall have to do some research of my own, some time. Please, join me. Cup of tea? You look like you need it.”

“Gladly.” The elf called for the waiter to bring another setting, and Bethany sat in the chair across from him. This far up in the mountains, the first snow of the year had come already, but the bright winter sun made for warmth and comfort. “I didn’t really get a chance to thank you the other time. Varric said you saved my life.”

“I like to think I managed to slow the growth of your mark, for a bit. A small matter, and one you already have more than repaid. I do not relish the thought of what might have happened, had you not halted the Breach’s growth.”

“We hardly won that fight, it’s still up there.” The waiter brought her tea. Bethany gave it a brief, critical look. Teabag, of course. Very Orlesian. Ah, well – still better than nothing.

“It’s a first step in the right direction. You proved that your mark is key to closing the Breach, provided we can augment its power sufficiently.”

Bethany frowned and sat down her teacup. She hadn’t considered that. Come to think of it, shouldn’t a complete tear in the Veil have practically infinite levels of thaumic radiation? It _was_ a hole to the Fade, after all. “By how much, then?”

“It is difficult to say. The helicopter can’t get close enough to the Breach for me to make a more accurate estimate. The amount of mana passing through it is, however large, finite, and so is the energy inherent within it. The tear in the Veil is tremendous, but not perfect – think of it as a membrane, which separates the Fade and our world, yet still allows osmosis. At the same time, however, the Breach grows on an infinite pool of energy, which means we have to act soon if you’re to have any chance of closing it.”

“So how much mana will I have to handle? Roughly.”

“My best bet is somewhere around the figure of a hundred gigathaums, plus-minus fifty. That said, it _is_ growing by the minute.”

Bethany gasped. “Maker above … what on earth could have caused this? I mean, even the Vyrantium bomb only set free about 2 GT …” She trailed off, tried to conceptualise the number. Her own mana pool, without any aids, had been tested at 432 kT. As far as she knew, even the greatest mages on record had not broken the 1 MT mark. There were a thousand kilothaums in a megathaums, and a thousand megathaums again in a gigathaum. One hundred gigathaums were a hundred million kilothaums. Enough magical energy to destroy and rebuild the planet. It boggled the mind.

Solas gave a wry smile. “Now you understand the problem we face. I have advised Lady Montilyet to arrange for an immediate deal with Orzammar, but even if you were to consume this year’s entire output of lyrium, you would rather fall short of the energy required. And of course it is possible that your mark is entirely unrelated to your own magic.”

She sipped on her tea to steady herself. Tea was great for this sort of thing. Maybe that was the Fereldan in her. Nearly killed and taken to the Circle? Tea. Nearly killed and on the run from persecution? Tea. Nearly killed and responsible for the fate of the world? _Tea_ , Maker damn it. The universal panacea. “There must be some other way,” she eventually said. Well, of course there had to be. She had been given this mark for a reason, hadn’t she? … had she? It just _felt_ wrong for her not to be able to do anything.

“Apart from lyrium, I can think of two complementary approaches,” Solas said. “One of them is getting other mages to place their mana at your disposal and enhance your focus. The other is blood magic.”

Bethany almost dropped her cup. “I’m _not_ a blood mage,” she said, rather sharply. “We are _not_ doing that.” So the elf was _that_ kind of apostate, was he? She had seen enough in Kirkwall to know that there was no excuse for blood magic. It was never worth the cost. What kind of mage would she be if she relied on the life forces of others? She wouldn’t be able to face father, or mother, or Marian.

“I thought you might say that. Considering your background, I understand your apprehensions, but I still believe it is vital that we keep all options open. This crisis is greater than any one of us.”

“Are you a blood mage, then?,” Bethany asked with barely disguised hostility. Good mages could be tempted by the power that blood offered, but no mage who gave in to it stayed good for very long, in her experience.

The elf chuckled. “No, I’m not. There is nothing I desire that I could not achieve except by using blood magic.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s an odd answer. Everyone has desires, surely. And Maker knows that a lot of good mages turn to blood magic to get them.”

Solas shrugged, pushing his teacup aside. “I live a simple lifestyle. Barring exceptional circumstances such as these, I generally avoid the company of people, so I wander around what little wilderness you humans have not yet destroyed. I seek out the places where the past lingers – the ruins of crumbled cities, the tombs of forgotten heroes, and the battlefields of nameless wars. There, I sleep.”

Bethany frowned. “I’ve been to places like these. When I was with the MCIS, we used to investigate demonic apparitions at archaeological dig sites all the time. Those are places where you’d find conglomerations of demons. Where the Veil has been ground so thin the air shimmers. Are you saying you deliberately seek out danger?”

“There is no danger there, save for that which mortals bring in their hearts. Spirits do not adhere to our preconceptions of benevolence, but only demons – spirits corrupted by mortal failing – wish us ill. Wisdom, Justice, Faith, Reason, Valour … some of those names I count amongst my closest friends.”

Taken aback, Bethany wasn’t sure how to reply. Merrill had been one thing – at least she recognised the terrible danger she placed herself in by dealing with a demon and merely overestimated her chances. This man appeared to be wholly ignorant of the guile with which even the lowest demons disguised their intentions. _Anders_ had been friends with a spirit, and see where that had led them both. “That’s, um …,” she managed, before faltering. “Nice? I guess?”

Solas gave her a noncommittal smile. “Quite. Now, Enchanter, I should really get back to work. It’s been a pleasure talking to you. Enjoy your tea.” Without awaiting her reply, he counted out two quid for his tea, rose from his chair, gave a slight bow and strode off down the street.

Sipping her tea, she looked after him until he disappeared round a corner. The elf didn’t _seem_ like an insane madman. She was pretty sure that it’d be nothing personal when he murdered her in her sleep, and that he’d have very good reasons for it. Maker, just what had she gotten herself into this time?

But even as she thought that, she couldn’t change that feeling of _rightness._ Despite the wounds she’d apparently sustained during the battle with the pride demon, Bethany felt better than she had for years. At times like these, she could almost understand why her sis- certain people actively sought out fights. But unlike those blood-soaked raids on Lowtown’s rival gangs, she did not feel like she was doing something wrong – no, she was defending people from demons. Defending her home.

And whatever was going to happen – and in the face of better evidence, viz. Sister Leliana’s grin – Bethany was completely and utterly certain that the Inquisition was going to do the Maker’s work.

Just as she was about to finish her tea, her phone buzzed. It took her a moment to recognise the device she’d taken from her hotel room that morning. There was a new text message, from an unknown number. _Sunshine, want to meet up? Meet me at ancient oak pub on high street – V._ She smiled a little. Out of all the familiar faces that had popped up around her all of a sudden, Varric was the most welcome. She had a vague idea of where Haven’s High Street was located, so she finished her tea, paid and went on her way.

Varric was waiting outside the pub, smoking. “You’re looking cheerful,” he told her, throwing his fag away. As a small token to the cold, he was wearing a scarf over his open shirt.

“Well, I did just meet my favourite dwarf in the world. Shall we go inside?”

At this time of day, the pub was almost empty, and the two of them selected a secluded table at the back, by a snow-covered cellar window. “I must say, Varric, I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Right back at you, Sunshine. We do seem to have a knack for getting our arses into trouble, don’t we?”

She laughed. “The universe just won’t give us a rest.”

Varric signalled the publican for a pint of lager. Bethany declined a drink. “So,” said the dwarf, leaning forward. “The Herald of Andraste. Impressive title, isn’t it? How’s it feel?”

Shrugging, she gave an uneasy smile. “It’s odd. Really odd. Like there’s a different me and everyone is confusing me with her.” She swallowed, remembering the way Ser Cullen had looked at her. They’d never been friends, but they’d gotten along. They’d been partners. Now? There’d been embarrassment, awkwardness, but also expectation. _Just go and close six hundred rifts, and pretty pronto. No pressure._ “Everyone expects so much from me. I’m not my sister. I can’t …” Her voice broke. “I can’t help them.”

“You will. Trust me on that. You think your sister knew how much good she would do when she started the gang? How high she’d rise? And all she was trying to do was to protect your family. The way things are going, you’re going to be protecting all the world. I’m not saying it’ll be easy. It’ll be pretty damn hard, I’d say.” Varric smiled. “But I’ll bet my arse that you’re going to do it. Because you’re just as much of a Hawke as your sister is, and you’re trying harder. And hey, it’s not like you’ve got to do everyone by yourself, now is it?”

That made her laugh. “I did miss you, Varric. Seriously, though, what are you doing here?”

“Well, you’ve met Cassandra? The Seeker? After what Blondie did in Kirkwall, she started to hunt us down for questioning. You know, the bunch of us. Turns out, though, that I’m the only one she could get her hands on.”

Bethany bit her lip. Of course someone would have tried to round up their friends. From what she had been told – and from what she had seen afterwards – Anders had not exactly been popular amongst their friends, but they’d still all been in the same boat. Foolish, foolish. “Do you know – do you know where the others are?”

With a shrug, the dwarf leaned back. “Roughly. Let’s see … I’m still in contact with Daisy. She hid out with one of the clans for a while, but apparently they’ve found her and offered her a fellowship in Elven Studies at Halamshiral. You know how she is – couldn’t be happier. Aveline is still in Kirkwall, facing the fire. She’s trying to keep some semblance of order, but from what I hear, she didn’t come out of the Inquiry unscathed. Dumar’s got her back, of course, but who knows how long until he bites the dust? I don’t know where Fenris is. Might be he’s gone to Tevinter to keep an eye on the mages we helped – you know how he is. Might be he’s with Rivaini again, and _she’s_ with the Rivaini fleet. Calls herself an admiral now, so I imagine she’s got a pretty big hat. Sebastian …”

“Wait, who’s Sebastian?”

Varric snorted. “Some … how did she put it? Ah, yes. A ‘moralising git who won’t stop following us, I swear if he mentions Andraste again I’ll shove his rifle up his arse’. Quote, unquote. I forgot that was after your time. Anyway, I think he’s gone into politics now, in Starkhaven. Good on him, never liked that city anyway. As for Blondie … you know I went looking for him when he disappeared, but I never found a trace. I don’t think he’s dead, but I have no idea where he could have gone.”

“He should have answered for his crimes,” Bethany quietly said. “What he did was horrible.”

“Was it, though? Sometimes I’m not so sure. Don’t get me wrong – blowing up the chantry, killing all those people – that was horrible, hell yes. But I get where he was coming from. When you went to the Circle – all of us agreed that we were going to help the mages in Kirkwall, even Fenris. Blondie just took it to its logical extreme. I should have seen it coming. All of us should.”

“Don’t say that. This whole mess was Anders’ fault. No one else’s, and certainly not yours. There was no way you could have known what he’d do.”

“Not even your sister?”

Bethany froze. Surely he couldn’t mean …? She tried to recall the scene. After Ser Cullen had arrived in the nick of time to save her from the blood mage she had been fighting, Marian and Anders had arrived soon after, followed by Knight-Commander Stannard. At the time, she had been rather distracted … had there been some sign? “What do you mean by that?,” she asked Varric in a hoarse voice. “What did my sister have to do with it?”

Defensively, Varric raised his hands. “Hey, I wouldn’t know. I don’t think she was in on it, not precisely – it would’ve worked out very differently if she had been. But … well, you know her best.”

She did, didn’t she? How many times had Marian railed against the Circle, and the Templars, and the whole world, on her behalf? How many mages had she smuggled out of the Gallows? Despite her best wishes, Bethany could not but suspect that Marian would have been the first to support Anders’ plot. “She never said anything about that,” she quietly said.

Somewhat awkwardly, Varric patted her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. When did you last see each other? You were still together when I went off looking for Blondie.”

Bethany shivered. That was another thing. “It’s been a while. She left not long after. Said it’d be safer for me.” Or had written as much, anyway. Waking up to find her sister gone and only a brief note left of her had been … well.

Best not to worry about that sort of thing. There was nothing to be done about it. That’s what she’d tried to do: swallow her tears and move on.

With every passing day, it was becoming harder.

As she opened her mouth to make a reply and change the topic to – well, anything else, really – her phone buzzed again, persistently. “Ah … sorry,” she mumbled, reaching inside her jacket. “I’ll turn it off.”

“You sure it’s not important?”

Against her better intentions, Bethany threw a glance at the display. Leliana. With a sigh, she picked up the phone. “Hawke speaking.”

“ _Obviously. Come to the chantry ASAP. Divine Justinia’s former confessor, Mother Giselle, asked for you._ ”

“What, you mean like …”

“ _By name._ ”

 

 

She took a deep breath. This was it. Around her, assistants laid on the last hands. A make-up artist made a few final adjustments, another smoothed out a crease in her robes. To one side, some of her aides were discussing the crowd in hushed whispers. To the other, her campaign manager was hunched over a laptop. In the middle of all that stood Calpernia, as still and calm as the Ferryman, one hand resting on her mage’s staff. Her eyes were fixed on the muted TV screens showing the stage outside.

Her campaign manager looked up from his laptop, glanced at the screens. Holding up three fingers, he silently voiced: _One … two …_

Before the three came, Calpernia had already stepped forward, and then she stood outside.

She could scarcely see the many heads of the crowd against the thunderstorm of flashlights and the glare of the spot lights. A frenetic cheer rose up as she slowly walked to the speaker’s podium. The crowd called her name in ten thousand voices. She flashed a smile at them, raised a hand, waved. The gesture was rewarded by an uproar.

Calpernia let her voice sweep across the ecstatic crowd of her supporters. There was a television camera. There was another, and another, and another. Time to show her teacher what she could do.

“People of Tevinter!,” she shouted into her microphone. “Hear me!” Gradually, the crowd settled down into an atmosphere of expectant devotion. “Thank you. Friends, I am here today to announce my candidacy for the office of Archon of the Tevinter Imperium …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes: 
> 
> 1) Leliana's hoodie is a programming joke, which I've got sumenya to thank for. It's read "hip hip array". 
> 
> 2) I'm probably expanding the urgency of the rifts here a bit from the game, where they never felt like a real threat. In a modern setting, they'd probably be a bit more dangerous due to how interconnected and volatile our civilisation is, and I'm still upping the number of rifts. Bethany better get to work soon, eh?
> 
> 3) As I've stated before, I'm using the unit thaum with the appropriate SI prefixes to measure mana and magical energy. Assume that 1 MP in game = 1 kT here. I'm not entirely sure on the proportions of the Vyrantium bomb -- Fat Man and Little Boy, the atomic bombs detonated over Nagasaki and Hiroshima, had a blast yield of 21 respectively 15 kilotons (kt). By contrast, the experimental Tsar Bomba -- to this date the most destructive device constructed by man -- had a theoretical maximum blast yield of 100 megatons, which is a LOT more. Thaumic weapons underwent similar developments as far as their blast yield or explosive force is concerned, but retained a fairly constant magical energy. No one likes marching into a bombed city to discover you've grown an additional toe, your mate's skin gone green and things are falling in the wrong direction. I'd like your thoughts on this.


	3. Then Profiteers

“There,” Cassandra said, handing her the binoculars. “By the rail station. Can you see it?”

It took her a moment to find the station through the smoke. Much of Witchwood was aflame – whether it was because the town had been torched or due to the residents’ hasty evacuation leading to accidents, Bethany could not tell. Even the last days’ heavy rains had not extinguished the fires. Near the rail station, she could make out the characteristic green glow of a rift, right on the tracks. A train had been leaving the station when it had opened, with disastrous results.  “Do you think that whatever is causing the rifts is placing them to do maximum damage?”

“I doubt it,” Solas said from his seat by the door. He did not seem at all perturbed by their location, which was rather too high above the ground for Bethany’s comfort. She’d asked Cassandra to at least let her close the helicopter’s side doors, a request that had fallen on deaf ears. She had to admit the view was good, but she suspect that wasn’t why Cassandra had done it. “The locations in which they appear seem to be mostly random. Rifts in populated areas are more likely to be reported to us, and it is only a matter of time until some appear on important thoroughfares. If anyone can control the placement of rifts, they are not being strategically sound about it.”

“So either our opponent is less mighty than we thought, or he’s an idiot?,” said Varric. “That’s heartening.”

“No matter. Before we do anything, we need to secure the Chantry’s backing – or, at least, its toleration.”

“Are you sure about that, Seeker? I snuck a glance at Ruffles’ spreadsheets yesterday. The donations just keep pouring in.”

“Just you wait until the Chantry denounces us as heretics, Varric. If people believe they are placing their eternal souls at risk by aiding us …”

“What, they’ll just _tolerate_ the Breach? The Inquisition is their best hope. They’ll support us.”

“You underestimate the people’s faith. _And_ their doubts in our cause.” Cassandra sharply rapped against the dividing wall to the cockpit. “Get us down by the rail station.”

The town of Witchwood had been mostly deserted even before the Breach had opened – as the Free Mages had taken control of Redcliffe, and the rebel Templars had followed them, Witchwood had become one of the war’s bloodiest battlefields. As such, the station’s empty parking lot had been fortified and turned into a helicopter landing area by the army. “Mother Giselle and the security detail we sent her are holed up in a hospital not far from here,” Cassandra informed them. “The hospital doesn’t have a landing pad. This is the closest secure location we can get. The rail station is held by the Fereldan Army. A Captain Maitland is in charge here, as far as we know, and has been given orders to render us any assistance we may require.”

Raising dust, the helicopter sat down inside the perimeter of sandbags. From inside the station building, the figure of a camouflaged and helmeted soldier approached them at a jog. “Are you the Inquisition?,” he shouted over the roar of the helicopter’s engines as Cassandra and Bethany climbed out of the vehicle.

“Yes,” Cassandra shouted back. “Are you Captain Maitland?”

“Lieutenant Flint, ser, Able Company, first battalion Royal Hinterlanders! Come inside, I’ll explain!”

Keeping their heads down, the group hurried inside the safety of the station building. Advertisements, blank timetables and shops with closed shutters had survived as testament of the busy interchange this had once been. Now, most of the station’s businesses had been burned out, and a company of the Royal Fereldan Army had set up camp inside. What remained of it, anyway – almost half of the soldiers seemed to be nursing some sort of injury. In a waiting room by the side, two rows of black plastic body bags had been laid out on the ground. “Frances – er, Captain Maitland was wounded this morning,” the lieutenant explained, leading them to what might count as a command post in other circumstances. “The doc’s hoping for the best, but she’s yet to wake up. Damn demons. You saw that blasted green thing outside? It’s been jamming our radio ever since it popped up in the night.”

“How many of you are left?,” Cassandra asked. Tactful.

“If we can get Perks back on her feet? 43. We’ve orders to hold the station until reinforcements can arrive by train, but we’re stretched thin all over. Why, what do you need?”

“You know St. Gytha’s Hospital, on Redcliffe Road?”

“Yeah. Some Chantry lady’s been trying to help the refugees there. It’s thirty minutes from here, but there’s no getting through. Let me show you.” He walked over to a plastic-coated map that had been rolled out on a fast food restaurant’s table. “We’ve got the demons right here at the station. No way around it either, not without mouse-holing your way through three buildings.”

Bethany nodded. “The rift won’t be a problem, so long as we can clear out the demons around it. Trust me.”

The lieutenant gave her an incredulous glance of the kind normally reserved for madmen and small children. “As you say, ma’am. It’s still not happening. There’s mage scum holed up between here and the hospital.” He glanced at her and Solas’ staffs. “Uh, no offense.”

She blushed, but only a little. She’d been called worse in her time with the MCIS. It wasn’t as if mages were doing much to engender trust these days. “Solas and I are mages, too. That should even the playing field a bit, so long as we’re careful.”

“Uh, right.” The soldier glanced at Cassandra, as if looking for moral support from a fellow uniform-wearer against yet another idiot civ. “Look, ma’am, I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I’ve got my orders. We’ve already lost too many good folks, and I’m not going to risk the rest of them on a suicide mission. Sorry.”

The representatives of the Inquisition shared a gloomy look. “Well,” Bethany started, “perhaps we can find another landing site with the helicopter …”

Cassandra ignored her and grabbed Lieutenant Flint by the front of his ballistic vest. “You damned coward!,” she snarled at him. “Do you have any idea what’s at stake here? Denerim assured us your full support.”

The lieutenant struggled to get free, but the Seeker’s grip was like a vice. “Fuck Denerim. I’m not sending my men to die for this,” he said, resolute even so.

“Look,” Varric pined in. “I know you’re in deep shit, LT. But we’re on the same side here. Your guys will keep dying if we don’t close the rift outside soon, and we can’t do that without your help. And it’s not just here. There’s rifts opening up all over the country, and we’re the only ones who can do shit about it. But to do that, we need to get to the hospital. It’s important.”

Cassandra let go of the man, and he stumbled a few steps backwards. “My people will _die_ if I take them out here,” he repeated. “At least in here we’ve got a chance until reinforcements come.”

“But that would put thousands at risk, and I don’t think you’re the type who’d do that. Here, let me have a look at you, Flint. You’re what, thirty? Thirty-five? You joined the army during the Blight, yes? It would’ve been safer to stay at home, let the Wardens deal with it. Easier, too. But you didn’t. You joined, because that’s the kind of guy you are, and because you wanted to protect all of Ferelden. Not just your own arse.”

“I …”

The Seeker glared at him. “Do you believe in the Maker, man?”

For a brief moment, Flint managed to withstand Cassandra’s withering stare. Then, he looked down. “I do, may He forgive me. Just … give me twenty minutes to get our wounded to shelter.”

Twenty minutes later, the remnant of A Company had formed up on the rail tracks in marching formation. “We’ll do what we can,” the lieutenant told them. “But I’m not happy about it, and neither are the men.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Cassandra told them. “You are doing the work of the Maker. Let’s move.”

They marched along the rails, between the platforms. Bethany was grateful for the combat boots she had been issued with before their departure; uncomfortable as they were, the thick soles were a relief.

Already, she could see the rift blocking the eastbound tracks, the derailed train toppled by its side. It was larger than the two she had closed so far, or at least it seemed that way. Demons flocked around it, as yet ignorant of their observers. Bethany could make out a multitude of shades, a rage demon and two unfamiliar, skeletal creatures with limbs as thin and wiry as knotted twigs. “Terrors,” Solas explained, sensing her bemusement. Lesser servants of Fear. They feed on the burning fear that take away your ability to reason and reduces men to beasts. Their presence here is to be expected.”

“Well, consider us properly terrified,” Lieutenant Flint grumbled.

Cassandra strode past him, drew her sidearm and released the safety. “In the Maker’s name, take heart, man. All things are ready if our minds be so!” And with these words, the Seeker walked off towards the rift, and the demons surrounding it.

“What the …” Breaking off, Varric groaned. “I’ll never understand how _that_ works out for her. Let’s go.” He broke into a run, followed by Bethany, Solas and the soldiers. Some orders were barked, the soldiers went for whatever cover could be found, and opened fire.

As Bethany extended her old telescopic staff and prepared her first spell, she watched Cassandra. The Seeker always seemed to know a few moments early where the next blow would land, and dodged the demons’ spells with the same facility as their claws. The soldiers studiously avoided firing in her direction, but Bethany distinctly felt that they might as well have. And once she had staggered an opponent, she followed it up with a perfectly-placed shot. What was still standing after that was subjected to her finely-decorated dirk, a weapon that would have looked purely ceremonial on anyone else. And every now and then, the Seeker seemed to light up with a golden light, and then her movements would blur …

Bethany raised her staff and flung a few wafts of flame at one of the shades. How long had it been since she had been in a fight like this? That must have been in their first year in Kirkwall, ages ago. Slowly, though, it was all coming back to her. In between firing bursts of flame at the weak shades thronging the rift, she reached out and cast Winter’s Grasp at the rage demon. The moment the fired, it moved aside as if to dodge, and her spell only grazed its side. “Damn it …” At least the demon’s stunted arm froze, but within moments the furious heat of the demon’s body would free it –

She barely heard the shot, but when she looked again, the frozen arm had shattered. She looked over her shoulder to see Varric grinning at her even as he reloaded Bianca. “Keep up, Sunshine. You’re out of shape.”

That made her laugh. “Shut up, you … oh, bugger …” Attracted by her spellcasting, the rage demon had sunken into the muddy ground, and a trail of magma was moving toward them at great speed … Bethany spared a glance at Cassandra, who was of course wholly engaged with the pair of terrors, and gripped her staff tighter. Well, they’d have to manage on their own. “Varric, incoming rage …”

“Got it.”

Rage was burning, scorching anger. Fire. Her flame staff would not hurt the beast, Bethany reasoned in a split second, but cold would. She channelled her mana into thoughts of winter, and with a sweep of her staff raised a Wall of Ice between them and the demon. Not a spell she was good at, and she distinctly felt the cost to her mana. Only when it did not seem to slow at all did Bethany realise that it was travelling underground. How far down did the spikes of ice go? Maybe if she … there was a satisfying _crunch,_ and then a _slosh._ “Sounds like you hit it,” Varric commented.

With a roar, the rage demon surfaced before them. Blistering heat emanated from it, and the two of them stumbled backwards away from it. Bethany barely had time to form a spell; she raised her offhand and _pushed_  –

The force of the telekinetic gust issuing forth from her hand staggered the demon, which bought them time. Varric grabbed her hand and dragged her aside just in time to avoid its roar of flame … Bethany brought her staff around and slammed the focus end against what passed for the demon’s head, causing its viscous skin to throw blisters and boils. It let out a pained scream, mixed with fury and turned to face her … “Winter’s Grasp,” she whispered coolly. Mid-movement the demon ground to a halt as ice bound it to the ground and encompassed its entire form.

“I’ll take it from here, Sunshine.” Varric stepped past her, brought Bianca level with the creature and fired. The first two bolts made cracks appear in the rage demon’s frozen form. The third shattered it, leaving behind only shards of ice and gluey ectoplasm.

Bethany and Varric shared a brief grin, before returning their attention to the rest of the enemies. Cassandra had taken down one of the terrors, and seemed to be doing rather well against the other. The soldiers, meanwhile, had taken down shade after shade, and only a few remained. Bethany tried to gauge her remaining mana pool – the Wall of Ice had cost her a lot, but it felt as if she still had about 200 kT left. More than enough for what she had in mind.

“Cassandra,” she shouted, “move!” After a tiny moment of hesitation, the Seeker abandoned her fight and sprinted away from the rift. Bethany raised her staff and, sketching a rough outline in the air, cast Pull of the Abyss,and only a split-second after, Firestorm _._

The combined effects of the random fireballs and the soldiers’ crossfire seemed to throw the demons into utter confusion. By the time the Firestorm came to an end, the few remaining demons were quickly banished. Retracting her staff, Bethany approached the rift and raised her left hand towards it. Already she felt the Fade tugging on her hand. When she reached out to join it to the rift, it opened wide before her. She reached inside, felt the power flow through her mark. Even the third time, the massive amounts of energy interacting with her body still felt like a kick in the chest, and took her breath away. Then, Bethany saw the rift collapse into a faint shimmer of Veilgleam and small, bubbling pouches of ectoplasm.

“Maker’s breath …,” one of the soldiers whispered. In the silence that had fallen over the battlefield, it sounded like a shout. Lieutenant Flint rose out of cover, shouldered his rifle and walked towards her like a sleepwalker, his helmet in his hands. “What did you do? Who are you people?”

Cassandra stepped to Bethany’s side. “We are the Inquisition. You are in the presence of the Herald of Our Lady, sent to us by the Maker Himself for our salvation.”

Flinching slightly, Bethany hissed: “Don’t say that! I thought we hadn’t decided on an official stance yet …” No one seemed to hear her.

The lieutenant’s eyes were wide as saucers. Despite the weariness that was manifest on his grimy face, he stood almost to attention. “I believe it,” he quietly said. “Maker’s balls, I believe it. You just saved all our lives, you know that? Whatever you need … if we can give it, it is yours. I give you my word as an officer.”

There was a brief pause. Then, Cassandra gave a curt nod. “Appreciate it.” She reached for the radio affixed to her bulletproof vest. “Pilot, this is Pentaghast. The rift has been cleared, I want you to fly above us and keep us appraised of any pertinent developments. I’m turning on my tracker for you to follow. Acknowledge, over.”

_“Acknowledged. Will keep you updated, out.”_

The Seeker turned back to the lieutenant. “You know the way to the hospital, do you not? Lead the way.”

“Yes, ser! Hinterlanders, form up!”

Varric and Bethany shared a look. “Well,” the dwarf said, a lopsided grin on his face, “they seem eager enough now. Shall we, o noble Lady Herald?”

That made her laugh. “Come on. Let’s not keep this Mother Giselle waiting and longer.” They fell in line.

Marching along the rails, they made slow progress. Heavy rainfall had made the ground a soggy field of mud, and the bed of pebbles surrounding the rails gave way under every step. Soon, the civilians among them were breathing hard. Bethany felt as though the soldiers were watching her, and now and then, when the lieutenant or the Seeker had them stop to scout ahead or check with the pilot, they seemed to subtly form a guarding perimeter around her.

“I don’t think anyone ever explained just why we need to go see this Mother Giselle,” Varric said during one of those stops. “There’s got to be something special about her if we’re going through all this effort.”

“She knew my name,” Bethany pointed out. “There should have been no way for her to know that. Whoever she is, she must have serious connections.”

“Come to think of it,” said the lieutenant, who had been listening intently, “I don’t think we were introduced.”

“That’s not all, though,” Cassandra continued, ignoring him. “Mother Giselle is one of today’s most important theologians, at least in Chantry circles. She used to hold the Imperialis Chair of Divinities at the University of Orlais, and for a long time was Divine Justinia’s personal confessor and confidante. Giselle retired to the Fereldan countryside a few years ago to focus on her studies, and hasn’t been involved in Chantry politics.”

“But the fact that we’re here suggests she’s still got some pull, doesn’t it? Are we here to get her out of retirement?”

“We assume that is why she contacted us, yes. Leliana informs me the situation in Val Royeaux is very delicate. With so many grand clerics killed at the Conclave, it will take months, if not years for a new Divine to be elected. In the meantime, the Chantry will be governed by the curia, but we need their support _now._ Even with the donations pouring in, we’re running out of money, and we have no legal authority.”

“And Giselle can get us their support?”

“She is still influential with Justinia’s supporters. These are difficult times for the Chantry.” Cassandra left it at that.

“Difficult for all of us,” Varric grumbled, but was interrupted by Cassandra halting with a raised hand.

“Lieutenant,” she called out. “According to my map, the shortest way to the hospital is along that road.”

The soldier followed her gaze. “That’s Greenhill Road. It’s a death trap. The rebel mages and their mercs hold it. I lost three good men to mines and snipers there. We have to find another way around.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be carrying explosives, would you?”

“I know what you’re thinking, but no. Sorry.”

Bethany was still looking for the road the Seeker had seen, until she realised there was a gap in the rubble. The buildings lining the street had been devastated – walls and floors had collapsed, leaving large holes in their sides. Some houses looked like cross-cuts, with entire sides or corners disappeared into rubble. There was not a single windowpane intact. Abandoned cars lined the street, burned-out and half-buried under the debris. “The mages started this,” one of the soldiers told her. “When they moved in, it didn’t take long until the fireballs started flying.”

“I find it hard to imagine any mage doing that much damage, even using blood magic.”

“Well, we had to take it back somehow, didn’t we? When it turned out the enemy was too well-entrenched to crack, the brass brought in heavy artillery and had the place shelled.”

Bethany gasped. “But this is Ferelden! These are our people! We can’t just destroy our own towns …”

“We’re at war, ma’am. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who was still in Witchwood when we starting shelling got what was coming to them.”

She found that assessment rather callous, but kept quiet. Things were only going to get worse – unless they could do something about it. She’d been there for the war’s beginning, and she’d be there for its end, Maker willing. After all, she thought, the Inquisition’s purpose was to restore peace and order to the world. Maybe they would fail – but Bethany did not believe that, not truly. It was as Cassandra had said: this was the Maker’s work, and He looked kindly upon them. Upon her?

“Here,” the lieutenant said after a while, leading them up a pile of rubble into the remains of someone’s second-floor kitchen. The building still seemed to be relatively intact, except it was missing almost everything above the second story. “We can take a shortcut through the houses.” He led the way to the upstairs, and with quick gestures directed his men to sweep the surrounding rooms. As the remaining soldiers brought up the rear, Bethany looked around the kitchen. The dented fridge was half open, clearly non-functional and unpleasantly odorous. A child’s crayon painting had been pinned to its door. Had these people gotten away in time?

Slowly, always sweeping ahead for hostiles, mines or booby traps, they made their way through the ruined block of flats. A living room, the TV still flickering static. A bedroom, buried in debris. More often than not, they had no difficulty passing from one flat to another through the holes in the walls. Other times, the crumbling walls gave way under a strong strike with the stock of a rifle.

Eventually, there was no way to proceed. The floor had collapsed before them, and one by one they jumped down to the ground floor. “Careful,” Solas said. “Watch your footing.” Indeed, the pile of rubble gave way under their feet immediately. Bethany had to hold on to one of the soldiers’ arms to get down safely.

“Do you smell something off?”

“Spread out. Sweep the area.”

“Ser, you should see this …”

The lieutenant and Seeker Pentaghast shared a concerned look, before hurrying in the direction the soldier’s voice had come from. Curiously, Bethany and Varric followed them. Now she could smell it too, an overbearing sweet odour. Her hands clasped to her mouth, her feet unsteady, Bethany made her way forward. A set of stairs led down to a cellar, lit only by the soldiers’ torches. Inside …

 “Ugh, what is that … oh, sweet Maker …”

“Don’t look, Sunshine.”

Body upon body filled the cellar, laid upon each other like sacks of dirt. Men, women, children – blood and dirt covered their clothing, and their flesh was grey and pasty. Most appeared to have been shot. Others had had their throats slit. One child’s head had been kicked in, rendering its face a bloody mess of brains and bone splinters. Flies and maggots had settled on the bodies in droves. Blessed Andraste have mercy … “Thirty or forty people,” one of the soldiers quietly said. “Mages, going by the clothes. No survivors.”

As Bethany relieved herself of her breakfast, Cassandra said a brief prayer over the bodies, commending the fallen to the Maker’s bosom. “We ought to burn them,” Solas said when she had finished. “Necrophages spread epidemics.”

The Seeker nodded. “They deserve a cremation. Make it so.”

By the time Bethany had recovered and was handed a bottle of lukewarm water to rinse her mouth with, Solas was slowly torching the corpses with the fire from his hands. “Who did this to them?,” she asked, still queasy. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Rebel Templars, most likely. I find it difficult to imagine anyone else subduing and executing such a large group of mages.”

Bethany swallowed. “And they said Kirkwall was bad … the men who did this are monsters.”

“So were the mages who did this. Do you think this town destroyed itself? The Templars and mages fighting each other operate on a different rationality, grounded not on facts but hate. This war brings out the worst in all of us.”

“There is _nothing_ that can justify this, Solas. Nothing.”

“Of course, Herald.”

“You feeling alright, Sunshine?”

“Yes … yes, I’m fine. Let’s keep moving.”

A minute or two later, she felt ready to join her magical fire to Solas’, and together the corpses burned much faster. She had not been aware of the heat and intensity of the flame required for a proper pyre. It was … heartening, in a way, to see how much she had to strain her abilities to incinerate a person.

At last, the work was done. She took a couple of lyrium pills to regenerate her mana, then returned to the others. “Sorry for the delay, lieutenant,” she quietly said. “We’re ready to move.”

“At your convenience, Lady Herald. If these mages were killed by Templars, we need to move carefully. They might still be here. I want you to treat this as enemy territory, everyone. Expect hostiles.”

Two of the soldiers glanced at each other. “Ser,” one of them then said, removing her helmet to reveal a young elven woman. “Permission to give my body armour and helmet to the Herald of Andraste?” The lieutenant gave her a surprised look, and she shrugged. “The Maker may shield her, but it can’t hurt to give Him a hand.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, the lieutenant nodded. “Do it, but be careful.”

Despite her protests, Bethany was stripped into a stiff suit of body armour and had a helmet tied to her neck. “There’ll be snipers out there,” the soldier patiently told her. “We can’t risk you getting shot, ma’am. My lady.”

“And what about you? You’ll be unprotected.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Ready to go, ser.”

They moved on. “Ten more minutes to the hospital from here. Double-time it, people.” It had begun to rain again – a fine mist, like a veil before their eyes. Nervously, Bethany watched the ruins of the town around them. Was that gleam over there the light reflecting on a scope? That noise, a Templar’s footsteps? That scent, refined lyrium?

“Over there. That’s St. Gytha’s.” The hospital still was mostly unscathed, though Bethany suspected that the massive concrete block in the style of the Blessed 80s would have withstood anything the army, mages or Templars could have thrown at it. “They declared it a safe zone early on during the war. The mages and Templars couldn’t care less about it, but at least it was spared the shelling.”

“Our forward scouts have taken control of the hospital,” Cassandra said. “They’ve orders to maintain radio silence, but we haven’t heard a distress call, either. They’re holding.”

She was interrupted by her radio crackling to life. “ _Ser, this is Lapidus. Be advised, you’ve got a significant enemy force making their way in your directions. Templars, I think. Please confirm, over.”_

Cassandra paused before replying. “Incoming Templars, got it. Numbers? ETA?”

“ _Difficult to say from up here. They’re advancing under cover of the ruins. I recommend you make haste, over._ ”

Lieutenant Flint agreed. “We need to get to the hospital, now. We can dig in there and wait for …”

There was a single gunshot, deep and echoing. “Get down!,” someone shouted, “Sniper!”

“Medic! Shaeril is down!”

“Perks, take out that shooter!”

“Already on it!”

The representatives of the Inquisition had slid into cover behind the shell of a burnt-out van. Lying alone few metres to their right, Bethany could see the elf soldier who had given her helmet to her. Blood was seeping from her chest, black on her fatigues. She did not stir. “Hold on,” Bethany told Cassandra, and then, hastily throwing up a Heroic Aura to at least take some of the force of a bullet’s impact, darted out of cover to the shot woman’s side. There was no time to check her life signs, let alone cast a healing spell, so Bethany simply slung an arm around the woman’s side and started dragging – another shot rang out, and something hit her in the shoulder like a sledgehammer. She screamed out, a pair of rough hands yanked her back into cover, still dragging the soldier Shaeril with her.

“What in the Void were you thinking?,” Cassandra shouted at her over the noise of the covering fire.

“She’s still alive!,” Bethany shouted back at her. “We’ve got to do something …”

“The private was aware of the risks. Your security is of paramount importance.” She paused. “Do what you can for her, but _stay. In. Cover._ ”

Hesitantly, she nodded. It felt wrong that trying to save another should be called a mistake. When she checked the elf’s pulse, however, it turned out that her efforts had been in vain. The woman was already dead, and had likely died the instant the bullet had bored into her head. “Damn it …” How many more would die for her sake today? How many tomorrow, or next week? They had to end this.

All around them, the soldiers were providing covering fire, lying in ditches and behind rubble and burnt-out cars, still looking for the gunman. “Any competent sniper would’ve moved after the first shot,” Varric commented, sighting down Bianca’s scope. “And maybe …”

A third shot cracked out, deep and sonorous. This time, Varric saw the muzzle flash, and so did some of the soldiers. Someone lobbed a grenade, and together with the sudden staccato of half a dozen assault rifles and one crossbow unloading their magazines into a dark window, that put an end to the sniper.

“Quickly now, he won’t be on his own! We need to get to the hospital before his friends …” Lieutenant Flint was interrupted by a shot that tore into his side and threw him to the ground. There was a scream – mere moments later, even as the soldiers were returning fire at the unseen assailants, Bethany was by the officer’s side, helping to drag him into the cover of an overturned car. “Herald, stay back!”

She ignored his protest, focusing instead on maintaining the flow of energy from her hands to the wound. She’d never been good at healing spells – never had acquired the in-depth knowledge of anatomy that distinguished a good healer from a passable one. And- a friend had taught her a few things, back when there had scarcely been a night when one of their friends wasn’t wounded in some way. She had never quite taken to it. Fire and ice, destruction, came more naturally to her than healing.

“Cheers,” Flint grunted out between his feet as the wound closed, at least superficially. “Herald, we’ve got good cover here, but we’re pinned down. It’s – argh – it’s just two hundred metres to the hospital. My men will cover you, you people make a run for it and make contact with your scouts …”

“We can’t just leave you here! You need medical attention …”

Cassandra laid a hand on her shoulder, heavy as iron. “He’s right. Lieutenant, have your people cover us. Solas, Varric, get ready.”

“On it.”

“But Cassandra …”

“That was an order! Move it!”

Biting her lip, Bethany tried to move the lieutenant into a more stable position before joining Cassandra, Solas and Varric in the cover of the van. From here, they could see the hospital clearly, even decipher the brass sign by the driveway. “Stay safe,” she told the soldiers who had helped them so far, but she doubted anyone heard her over the roar of the guns. Glancing at Cassandra, she took a deep breath.

It seemed to take a small eternity until the Seeker jumped to her feet and broke into a run, followed by the rest of them. The soldiers behind them redoubled their effort, laying down covering fire to keep the Templars down. For a moment it seemed to work –

Bethany could not remember ever running like this. Almost immediately, she was out of breath, but her legs kept moving as if by themselves. Behind them – she dared not look back, kept her gaze fixed on the hospital, its shattered doors, its shelter – she stumbled. A sharp, jagged pain flashed through her right ankle, and for a moment her vision turned bright with pain. “Sunshine!” Before her knees met the ground, Solas and Varric were by her side, dragging her along. Before them, the Seeker had stopped, drawn her gun and was firing at something or someone to their right, one hand glowing golden with a power that was not quite magical. Suddenly, Bethany could see blood further darkening her Seeker’s uniform –

“ _Get inside. I’ll handle this._ ”

And her world exploded.

Someone must have thrown a grenade, part of Bethany’s mind managed to reason, as the explosion blinded her. She had expected thunderous noise, but all she heard was a light, overbearing ringing in her ears. By the time her vision cleared, she only caught a glance of muzzle fire, mirrored on a brushed steel plate, before she was ushered into the hospital’s lobby.

“—after the wounded. Ellana, Edric, can you cover them?”

“Already on it …”

“Come on, let’s get you down to the basement …” A Templar uniform. She tried to struggle, but her ankle gave way under her. Only thanks to her companions did she stay upright.

“Where … what …”

“Knight-Corporal Maxwell Trevelyan, ma’am, we’ve met before? Captain Harding, the Herald has arrived.”

A dwarf in dark green camouflage fatigues hurried to meet them. Only now Bethany noticed that both her and the Templar were wearing black armbands with the logo of the Inquisition on it. “I’ll take it from here, go assist the Warden and the others.”

“Ser.”

“Your Worship, it’s good to – you’re wounded. Quick, follow me.”

They were led out of the lobby and downstairs into the basement. Once, this might have been the hospital’s morgue. Now, it was being used as a sickroom. Most of the patients must already have been evacuated, Bethany thought. Only a dozen or so remained, including two wounded Inquisition scouts and a woman in what seemed to be a Templar uniform, convalescing on what had been autopsy slabs. They were being tended to by a solitary doctor in grimy scrubs and a slightly pudgy, middle-aged black lady in the robes of a Chantry sister, likely one of Mother Giselle’s attendants. “Here, on that slab.” With the assistance of Solas and Varric, she was sat down on one of the tables.

The Chantry sister came over her. “Welcome,” she said in a heavy Orlesian accent. “Let me look at your ankle. Doctor, if you would see to Seeker Pentaghast’s wounds? There should be another free slab in room 4.” The sister knelt by her side, carefully removed Bethany’s shredded boot and laid a finger on her wound. It almost brought her to tears, but she bit her teeth and bore the pain. “Does it hurt?”

Bethany thought: ... well, she thought a long string of unpleasant things, including a lenghty list of expletives.

Bethany said: “I’m … I’m fine. What about Cassandra? And the soldiers upstairs?”

“They are in good hands. Now, let’s have a look at you, shall we?” The sister closely inspected her wound, then gave her a reassuring smile. It was possessed of an almost supernatural confidence, Bethany found, or maybe wanted to find. She’d seen a smile like this before, recently, on the face of Her Perfection. “It’s not that bad. It’s not hit the bone or sinews. We’ll remove the bullet and clean your wound. You’ll be able to walk without difficulty in a few weeks. Sooner, if you use magical healing.”

She frowned at that. What kind of Chantry sister would suggest magical healing, in this day and age? Mages had shown they could not be trusted over and over again. A suspicion dawned on her. “I’m sorry, I did not get your name …”

The sister’s smile widened. “I am Mother Giselle, of the Couvent des Trois-Saintes de Val Chevin.”

Bethany flushed red. Damn it, she should have realised. “Then … you’re who we’re looking for. I, er, I represent an organisation that …”

“… calls itself the Inquisition, and intends to restore order to the world. I know who you are, Ms Hawke.”

“How? My name was not released to the public.”

Giselle gave a wry smile. “I’d like to claim the Maker revealed it to me in a vision, but I fear the truth is rather more mundane than that. I saw photos of you on the Internet, and recognised your face from my time with the First Kirkwall Inquiry.”

Well, maybe they should have expected that. It wasn’t as if Haven was a closed military installation – there were hundreds of people in the village, all with a keen interest in the Inquisition and her person, and all with camera phones and Internet connections. It had been only a matter of time until someone recognised her. “I … see. So why did you want to meet me?”

“All in good time. First, we need to get that bullet out of your foot. How about you tell me the story of how you became the Herald of Andraste?”

Oh, not this again. It was a story she had grown tired of telling over the past few days, and judging by the Inquisition’s growing numbers and profile, it was one she’d have to tell many more times. “I’m sure that’s not very …” Mother Giselle reached for a rather vicious-looking tool that might be described, with a lot of goodwill, as a pair of tweezers. Bethany was not in the mood for goodwill.

“I’m asking because we ran out of narcotics a week ago, and this might hurt.”

For a brief moment, Bethany stared at the priestess with stunned disbelief. Surely she couldn’t mean … oh, of course she did. What a great day it was turning out to be. “Well, let’s get to it then, shall we?” How to start, how to start … how long was this going to take, exactly? Better start at the beginning. Just to be safe. Alright, now concentrate. “Um. To start with, I was at the Conclave as part of the mage delegation from Redcliffe – I’d spent a few months there.”

“You took part in the negotiations, then?”

“Not as such, no. I think they mostly sent me to make a statement. The Grand Enchanter clearly thought it would help our case to have a Hawke attending the conference.”

Mother Giselle chuckled. Bethany tried not to look at her doing whatever she was doing to her ankle. She still hadn’t got used to the sight of blood, certainly not her own. “And here you are. Sounds like that worked out well enough. A mage, the Herald of Our Lady.”

“Heh. I still don’t know how in the Void that happened.”

“What do you remember, then? Hold still.”

She closed her eyes. Bethany had gone over those few critical hours before the attack time and time again, trying to find where it had all gone wrong. She had overcome her fears and sought an audience with the Divine, made a lengthy and emotional confession of her sins. And – this was the part with which she still struggled – had received absolution. At the time, it had seemed like a revelation. But then, a mere hour after Bethany had left the Divine’s chambers … She was not so conceited to think the explosion and the Breach had been punishment for her sins, but what had happened did not suggest … no, she mustn’t think like that. Though they had only met once, Divine Justinia’s presence had entered her life with the force of a hurricane. For the first time in so many years, she had been confident in her choices and at peace with herself. What she was, whom she loved: through Justinia’s mouth, the Maker had forgiven her. All of this she told Giselle, if in condensed form. Certain secrets she would not, could not share.

By the time she had finished, so had Giselle. She’d barely noticed the older woman removing the bullet from her ankle, but there it was, staining a tissue with her blood. “You blame yourself, but out of all those thousands and thousands of people at the Conclave, you alone survived. The Chant tells us that there are no coincidences, there is the Maker. All things that happen, happen according to His plan. Your survival, your mark, are as much part of His will as the sun rising in the morning. _You_ are part of that plan, do not doubt that. But whether you will be our destruction or our deliverance is yours alone to decide. Tell me – do you believe you are what they call you, the Herald of Andraste?”

Bethany bit her lip, tried to hold still as Giselle bandaged her ankle. “I am a mage,” she said after a while. There was more to it than that, she realised, but this was the core of it. “Andraste fought _against_ mages.”

“She fought against the ancient Imperium, whose magisters then controlled most of the world with evil magics. Even then, she never called for all mages to be put to the death. She believed in peaceful coexistence, and that mages are no less worthy of the Maker’s grace than anyone else.”

“And yet they lock us up in Circles, whether we want to or not. And when we resist …” Her nausea returned the moment she recalled the mass grave they had found on the way. Maybe it was true that the mages buried there had been Maleficars and psychopaths, but she could not help but serve her memory for familiar faces. Had that man not been a fellow teacher in Redcliffe? Had that woman not been an administrator up at the castle, that child not one of her apprentices? She shivered.

“The Templars have long been an anachronism, and over the past few years many of them have strayed from the Maker’s path. But you did not answer my question, Ms Hawke. Do you believe you are the Herald of Andraste?”

The bandage was done. Scrutinising, Bethany drew the leg towards her chest, turned her ankle. It still hurt, but it’d heal. “I cannot believe the Maker would choose someone … someone like me for this task. But the things that happened over the past few days … the power I have been granted … and then, when I closed the first rift to halt the growth of the Breach …” She halted. She wasn’t sure _what_ had happened then. “Nevermind. But it’s … making me think. It’s a bit frightening, to be honest.”

Giselle smiled at her and took her hand. “There is much to fear, I will not deny it.. But if you place your trust in the Maker …”

The priestess was interrupted by the earth shaking. Bethany swung her legs down from the autopsy slab, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through her leg when she did so. “What’s going on? Are we being shelled?”

Laughter from the stairs seemed to prove her wrong, and mere moments later Lavellan walked into the room, her battered old bolt-action hunting rifle slung over her shoulder, talking to someone behind her. “… but no, he _jumps forward,_ and … attention!” Her poise straightened up. Behind her, Trevelyan, Adaar and Cadash did the same, quietly filing into the morgue.

“Your Worship,” Trevelyan addressed her, “beg to report that all enemy forces have been neutralised as of 1645 hours. Captain Harding has taken the surviving Hinterlanders to clear and hold an LZ a hundred metres down the road.”

Bethany was too baffled to answer, but Cassandra’s appearance, leaning on the doorframe, saved her from having to answer. “Good work, knight-corporal. Casualties?”

“Ser, two of the Hinterlanders including Lieutenant Flint moderately wounded, one KIA. They’re being cared for on the upper level until we can evacuate.”

That broke Bethany’s stun. “How in the world did you manage to take down all those Templars? There must have been dozens of them out there!”

“Well, er …”

The ground shook again. This time, it was accompanied by an odd, metallic stamping noise approaching down the stairs. And then, a massive steel golem emerged – no, a man in a suit of armour that covered every inch of his body in metal. Here and there, at the joints, one could espy glimpses of heavy deep blue textile between the plates. A large white double-headed griffon holding a chalice in its talons was stencilled on the chest plate. She’d seen armour like this before, during the Blight. He also had a massive weapon strapped to his back that only loosely fit Bethany’s definition of a ‘gun’, with eight separate rotating barrels and a large ammunition backpack. Yelp.

The man removed his helmet with the hiss of an airtight seal releasing, and revealed a large, stern red face and a very impressive dark beard. “The LZ is ready, and RFA General HQ are sending choppers to evacuate us.” He turned to Bethany and nodded with a faint smile. “You must be the one they call the Herald of Andraste. Warden-Constable Gordon Blackwall, at your pleasure. You’ll forgive me for not shaking hands.”

Bethany glanced at his gloved fist. It looked like it could crush a small car with no great difficulty. “Ha- Bethany,” she introduced herself. “If I may ask, what exactly is a Grey Warden doing here?”

“Warden Blackwall was in the area when the rebel mages took control of the city,” Mother Giselle explained. “He joined us quite early on. It’s thanks to him that we’ve not been attacked by either mages or Templars.”

Cassandra gave him a stern nod. “Then you have the Inquisition’s gratitude for that. Now, Mother Giselle, while we wait for the evac to arrive, what did you call us here for?”

The priestess rose to her feet, folding her hands over the sash of her rope. “I still have friends in Val Royeaux, and they inform me the situation is dire. With most of the curia dead, the Chantry is in disarray. Some of the grand clerics are now struggling to hold the curia together and administrate the Chantry’s secure zones in Orlais and Ferelden. Others are already playing the Game, with the Sunburst Throne at stake. And others again are simply terrified, and looking for guidance. Grand Cleric Hevara of Val Firmin now heads the Secretariat of Laws and has been appointed to represent the Chantry on the Imperial Council of State. That is very troubling.”

“I am not familiar with this Mother Hevara,” Cassandra said. “I assume she doesn’t look too kindly on our activities.”

“That is one way of putting it. I know her well, we attended university together, though we were never close. She is a brilliant theologian, but as far as politics are concerned, she is a hawk. Like many on the Council of State, she believes that the Conclave was attacked with a thaumic weapon, and that Tevinter is behind the Breach. The Inquisition, they believe, is nothing but a Tevene plot to destabilise southern Thedas and the one true faith. They would have Orlais retaliate with all its might.”

Bethany gasped. So did most everyone else. It was obvious what this meant. “That would mean full-scale thaumic war with Tevinter! Surely the Orlesians realise that would be their own destruction as much as the Imperium’s?”

“Not just Orlais and Tevinter,” Blackwall grimly added. “This could be the destruction of all the surface nations of Thedas. Maybe the world.”

“Indeed. So you see, it would be a crime to make the Maker weep for His children. Thankfully, the hardliners do not yet have a majority on the Council of State. For now, Grand Chancellor Roderick and Empress Celene are reining them in, but for how long? The Inquisition must prove that there is another way, and that you are truly an army of the faithful. Go to Val Royeaux, Herald. Talk to Hevara, and the other grand clerics. Convince them that you are not an enemy to be feared, that you are their best hope. And end this war before it can begin.”

Before Bethany could reply, Cassandra’s radio crackled to life. “ _This is 664 Squadron AAC actual; Seeker Pentaghast, come in, over.”_

The Seeker reached for her radio. “Pentaghast. I read you, 664. Over.”

“ _Ser, we are approaching your LZ, ETA five minutes. Be prepared to evacuate, acknowledge.”_

“Acknowledged. You heard him. Doctor, Mother Giselle, can your patients be moved?”

“All of them are stable, yes. Ser Warden, would you help me?”

By the combined efforts of the Inquisition soldiers, the Hinterlanders and Warden Blackwall, they managed to get their sick and wounded to the landing zone just in time for the arrival of the Royal Ferelden Army’s No. 664 Squadron (Army Air Corps). The three transport helicopters had been joined by the same old police helicopter the Inquisition had requisitioned at Haven, and between them they managed to get their entire group airborne. It was only when they were rising about the smouldering ruins of Witchwood that Bethany realised she was right across from Lieutenant Flint, whose wound had been bandaged and cleaned. At least they hadn’t lost everyone today. “Lieutenant,” she greeted him. “Are you alright?”

He chuckled. “I’m fine. Maker knows I’m fine. I just got word from the people we left behind at the train station, all of them made it. They’re being flown out as we speak. I’m just sorry Frances didn’t live to see this. This was her unit.”

It took her a moment to remember. “Your captain?”

“My … yeah. She’ll be … missed. Excuse me.” He deeply sighed and leaned back against the helicopter’s bare wall. “Look, ma’am, my people and I have been talking. We’re Fereldans and proud of it, all of us, and that’s why we’re in the army. But it’s clear that with all that’s going on right now – Templars, mages, demons … Ferelden can’t do shit about that, pardon my Orlesian. So … ma’am, we’d like to join up. Join your Inquisition. If you’ll have us.”

Further down the helicopter, Warden Blackwall concurred. “You might just be our best, last hope. And, who knows, maybe you could use a Grey Warden at some point.”

Bethany felt light. So this was what it was like to be a leader, was it? People looked to you to make the decisions, thought you had all the answers. Was this how Marian had always felt? No wonder she’d found peace at the bottom of a bottle. Today, Bethany was spared the need to answer by every radio on the helicopter crackling to life at once.

_“To all units – this is RFA General Headquarters West actual. Commence Operation Final Threshold, now. For king and country! May the Maker judge us justly. GHQ out.”_

“What does that mean?,” Bethany asked when the transmission had ended.

In the distance, far below them, there was a thunderstrike, then another, and another. Artillery commenced firing, and the first shells detonated on Witchwood. Almost at once, Bethany felt the disturbance in the Veil as whatever flora and fauna had remained in the city ruins shrivelled and died.

“It means,” said Lieutenant Flint darkly, “that we have crossed the final threshold to total war. They’re scorching Fereldan earth down there. There’s no turning back now. We’re at war.”

Bethany looked out at the town again. A new firestorm had broken out, and somehow seemed to consume the very air. She suspected magic was at work. “We’ve been at war for a long time,” she said, very quietly. “We just didn’t realise it. May the Maker judge us justly …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Yes, Blackwall is wearing power armour. Think Fallout meets Mass Effect. Though surface armies have long abandoned armour and plate, the tactics employed by the Darkspawn still necessitate some kind of body protection. Based on an inner layer of padded fabric armour with chainmail-inlay, non-flexible areas are further reinforced with steel plating. Trials with lighter ceramic plating, standard in surface armies and for firearm protection, proved unable to resist the melee weapons employed by the Darkspawn horde. An onboard computer system monitors the Warden's lifesigns, and important combat data is projected on a HUD inside the helmet. The heavy armour is highly versatile and compatible with Warden issue shields and a variety of light and heavy weaponry ranging from swords to flamethrowers. Their weight, however, significantly encumbers the wearer and the environmental controls and support systems require special training to operate in combat. In addition, all these features make heavy armour prohibitively expensive. Since its introduction in 9:28, fewer than 1000 full suits have been issued, and 93 were lost at the Battle of Ostagar. In future, these armours may become cheaper to mass-produce, but until then, suits are passed down from Warden warrior to warrior.
> 
> 2) I tried to follow real-world radio etiquette fairly closely, but I may have made some mistakes. Feel free to correct me. The same goes for any blatant disregards of standard military procedures I may have committed. I'm not particularly keen on writing or reading military fiction and have no military experience myself.
> 
> 3) I realise Revered Mother Hevara is not a grand cleric in the games, but I felt it would be unrealistic to have a mere revered mother have so much pull in the Chantry even after the Conclave. There is no way at all to believe all grand clerics would attend the Conclave at once.
> 
> Please review!


	4. It is an axiom among kings

Ten miles off the coast of Gwaren, aboard the Royal Fereldan Navy helicopter carrier HMS _King Calenhad,_ in the magnificently-decorated king’s ready room on the deck castle, His Majesty King Alistair of Ferelden was trying very hard not to stare at his friend Leliana’s chest.

Hold on, that came out wrong. What he was _actually_ trying to do was not to stare too much at the joke printed on her bright red hoodie. _Don’t shoot, I’m in Engineering!_ Alistair didn’t get it, and he wasn’t about to admit that. It was infuriating; whenever he spent any time with his friend, he could feel his nerd cred trickle away.

He glanced up to find Leliana smirking at him. Oh, Maker, did she think – no, that was the smug smirk of superior geekiness. That was, in a way, worse.

Flushing red, he tried to return his attention to the, er, _spirited_ discussion Eamon and Lady Montilyet appeared to be having. “No, no, no! That is utterly inacceptable! You know as well as I that the Inquisition requires those aircraft _now_ , not in a year or two. I must say, prime minister, I find our proposal quite generous …”

“You come here, a group of penniless sectarians, expect us to sign over a small army’s worth of military equipment for an IOU and you call it generous? Lady Montilyet, from the way you redefine the word I can only assume you’ve spent too much time in Orlais playing their ‘Game’.”

Returning his attention to the negotiations, Alistair gave a deep sigh. “You’ll have your equipment, Lady Montilyet. Ferelden will lend you what we can spare, I promise. You can worry about paying us back once that hole in the sky is closed. Ferelden will also be contributing a substantial amount towards the Inquisition’s upkeep. Something along the figure of 200 million sovereigns a year, perhaps?”

“There’s also the matter of Fereldan servicepeople joining the Inquisition.”

“Right, right. I can see where you’re coming from. I’m sure we can work something out. How about this: any Fereldan servicepeople or public servants who wish to join the Inquisition may do so, and will continue to receive half pay for up to a year.”

There was a brief pause. Then, Eamon sat back in his chair, his displeasure plain on his face. “I must protest, sire. The people won’t stand for it, and neither will Parliament.”

“Good thing Parliament doesn’t have a say in this anymore.”

“They’ll want one, though, no way around that. I’ve already reshuffled my cabinet four times over the past six months; these days it’s almost impossible for my whips to get anything through the house at all. They need to be consulted, or they will rebel when it comes to extending the Defence of the Realm and Enabling Acts, I promise you that.”

Lady Montilyet leant forward. Like a lion jumping in for the kill, Alistair thought. “Prime minister, I appreciate this is a difficult thing for your government to accept. But the Breach threatens all of us equally. Right now, the Inquisition is the only group fighting a concerted effort against the demons. We have proven that we can close rifts at Haven, and at Witchwood.”

“And how very convenient that is, too.”

Alistair shot him a quick glare. They’d had that discussion before. “Eamon, I have made my decision. The Inquisition will have all the support it requires. Get the Orlesians in on it, too, if you can. They have as much to fear from the Breach as we do.” The king rose to his feet, straightened out his uniform. “I need some air, I’ll go above decks for a bit.” He gave Leliana a look that he hoped was meaningful.

“I’ll come with you. Josie, I’ll let you handle this. Have fun.”

The ready room was located only a few steps from the _King Calenhad’_ s CIC, and from there it was only a few more stairs and bulkheads to the balcony surrounding the bridge. A few crewmen were taking a break, but respectfully withdrew inside when their king and Leliana appeared. “What a mess,” Alistair finally said, leaning on the railing and pulling a pack out of his jacket. “Cigarette?”          “Haven’t touched one in eight years, thanks. I knew you’d started smoking, but why? It’s bad for you, you know.”

That made him chuckle through the smoke of his fag. The Warden that died of lung cancer, a tale for the storybooks. Well, that at least wasn’t a concern of his. Alistair shivered in the cool sea air. If he concentrated, he could hear the Song even now. “Really? Who’d have thought.”

“You didn’t answer the question, Alistair.”

The king sighed. “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, let’s put it like that. Heh. Just look at me. Thanks to the Enabling Act, I’m the most powerful monarch in the modern history of Ferelden. I’m practically in charge of governing my country now. And look at what’s happening to it. The entire south-west is in disarray, the mages rule Redcliffe and the Templars are holed up at Therinfal All recovery in the Blightlands has come to a halt, and the only government still standing west of Lake Calenhad is that of the Chantry. I myself have had to leave Denerim because it’s ‘unsafe’, so I’m holed up on this damn ship. And that’s before the sky opened up. The demons couldn’t pick a better time, could they? Do you know how many of my subjects have died since this war began?”

“302,129, at the latest count.”

He gave Leliana a glance. “Nevermind. Of course you do.” He drew on his cigarette. He felt a bit calmer now, and his hands weren’t shaking as badly. “Look, Leliana. We’re friends, right?”

“Of course we are. Why do you ask?”

“And you’re also the Inquisition’s … what do you call it? No, wait, let me guess. Inventory team manager? Business analyst? Agile project manager? Senior …”

“Senior risk management analyst,” Leliana smoothly said. “Or simply … ‘head of IT’, to my friends.”

Alistair gave a lop-sided smirk. “I could hear the quotes around that, you know. Knowing you, I expect you already know the National Intelligence Service knows about your Herald of Andraste.”

“That would be a safe assumption.”

“I’ve read the dossier, you know. Ms Bethany Hawke, born 9:11 in Lothering, joined the Kirkwall Circle of Magi in 9:31 where she served with the MCIS, then became a teacher of basic magic in Redcliffe after the Circles fell. There’s a lot of stuff on her sister. Other than that, most of it is official documents. Lads at the NIS never even noticed her before, and all of a sudden she’s the Herald of Andraste, saviour of us all. Honestly, I can’t blame Eamon for being suspicious.”

Leliana leaned forward over the railing to look him in the eyes. “The Inquisition is not a conspiracy, Alistair,” she said, with a fire he hadn’t seen in her in years. “We’re not a Tevinter plot. Trust me in this.”

“And what about Ms Hawke? Do you trust her?”

“I am not in the habit of trusting people. But there’s few people I mistrust less than Bethany Hawke. If she is double-crossing us, she is the greatest liar in the history of the College of Bards.”

“Hm. I’ll take that.” Flinging the dog-end of his cigarette into the ocean, the king straightened up. “Well, you better fix this mess pretty damn soon. This is already the longest war of the century, and we had a Blight a few years back, if you can remember. I’d like to be around to see the end of it.”

“What’s wrong? You sound as if you’re expecting to die. Your last medical was fine, you know, though you should probably exercise more.”

“Yeah, I won’t ask how the in the Void you know about that. There’s things … things you don’t know. Things I can’t tell you about. If I should die sometime during the next few years, the House of Theirin will die with me. Anora, Teyrna of Gwaren, will become the next queen of Ferelden. As a friend, I’d like to ask you to do what you can to support her. She’ll need your Inquisition.”

Leliana laid a hand on his shoulder. Funny, that. When they’d first met, that would have made him shriek back in fear. Today, he could feel the needle-thin stiletto blades hidden down her sleeve and he barely twitched. “Don’t worry about that, Alistair. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be king for another thirty, forty years. And who knows, that’s more than enough time for you and Eleanor to pop out a little prince or princess.”

“Hah. Hah, hah.” Sometimes it was a pain to be the only Warden far and wide. Sometimes he’d like to shout out the order’s secrets to everyone who’d listen. His people deserved to know that their king heard the Calling, didn’t they? But he’d also sworn an oath, once, to Duncan.

Leliana turned to leave. “I should check how the negotiations are coming along. We’ll have a concordat before the day is over, I hope.”

“Leliana, just one more thing. Do you … have any news? About her?”

Her hand against the doorframe, the spymaster paused. “I’m sorry,” she softly said. “I have people looking for her all over, but it’s like she disappeared into thin air. If I find any trace of her, you’ll be the first to know, I promise. Forgive me, Alistair. I know it’s not the answer you were hoping for.”

“It isn’t. But thanks for trying.”

 

 

Bethany had not been looking forward to making the trip from Haven to Val Royeaux in a helicopter. One sat cramped and uncomfortably, and the aircraft was subject to all manner of turbulences. As it turned out when the chopper landed on an airbase about an hour north of Haven, she needn’t have worried. “The Fereldan military is granting us free use of Bexley Air Base for now,” Cassandra explained as they were exited the aircraft. “We may want to establish something more permanent. For now, we’ve indefinitely chartered an Amaranthine A650 for VIP transport.”

She almost did a spit-take at that. “Are you saying you chartered a plane, just like that?”

“I apologise, Herald. We’re negotiating with the manufacturer, but it will take some time before we can purchase a jet with the appropriate security add-ons. Rest assured that this one has been fully outfitted and screened by Leliana’s specialists.”

Huh. Sounded like Lady Montilyet’s attempts to get funding from the government were paying off already. Their group – Cassandra, Blackwall, Varric and herself, followed by the helicopter pilot – were quickly ushered through security and across the airfield. A sleek, bright white jet was already waiting for them. “I’ve never actually been on a plane before,” Bethany confided in Blackwall, who had left his power armour at Skyhold for the occasion and was dressed in a worn blue service uniform. “I’m kinda worried I’ll do something wrong.”

The Warden chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry. If you can handle that damn chopper, you can handle a luxury jet. How come you’ve never flown before?”

“I was a Circle mage, remember? Not a lot of room for vacation. And before that, I was an apostate. You can’t get a passport without going through tests.”

“Which does remind me,” Cassandra entered the conversation, “Commander Cullen asked me to remind you to have your DNA sample and fingerprints taken for identification, Warden. Standard procedure.”

Blackwall’s reply was a noncommittal grumble.

They boarded the plane, and for an instant Bethany was dazzled by the luxuriant furnishings. Was that a bedroom at the back of the cabin? “Well, looks like the Inquisition didn’t spare any expenses …”

Varric had already made himself comfortable in one of the wide, leather-backed seats. “We’ll be travelling in style. I like the tables. Sunshine? Hero? You two up for a few hands of Wicked Grace?” Cassandra snorted. “No need to ask you then, Seeker. I’ll deal.”

As Varric dealt out the first hand, the door to the cockpit opened. A short, tanned man with greying blonde hair in a pilot's uniform and an Inquisition armband entered the cabin. “Morning, sers, just making final preparations for take-off.”

The Seeker frowned at him. “You’re our helicopter pilot, aren’t you? I didn’t realise you were qualified to fly aeroplanes as well.”

“Francis Lapidus, ser,” the pilot said, saluting. “I flew choppers and fighters for Tevinter’s Imperial Air Force, for almost sixteen years. Transferred to civilian aviation after that, and happened to be in Haven during the Conclave attack. Don’t worry, ser, you’re in good hands with me.” He gave a slight cough. “Well, mostly.”

“Mostly?,” Varric said, glancing up from his cards. “That sounds like there’s a story behind that.”

“I only ever crashed a single plane, master dwarf. And there were extenuating circumstances.”

“What sort of extenuating circumstances?”

“Demons, mostly. A magical island. I’d rather not talk about it.”

Cassandra snorted. “Just get us to Val Royeaux in one piece.”

That, Lapidus did. The flight took just over one and a half hours and passed smoother than Bethany had thought. From the hushed discussions between Cassandra and the pilots she overheard, there was some difficulty getting permission to land in Val Royeaux, but by the time the issue was resolved and they disembarked the plane, a small Inquisition detachment was waiting for them with armoured cars and a small police escort on motorcycles.

It felt strange to be saluted by them. The Inquisition’s people were already wearing the new service uniform that was starting to replace the simple armbands: deep black jackets, trousers and neckties, with gilded buttons, buckles and insignia, white leather gloves and belts. Their leader was wearing a crimson silk sash under the belt. Leliana’s design, as she recalled. It all looked very dashing, Bethany supposed, but she was already dreading what it represented. With the armbands, the Inquisition had been a force of volunteers, struggling to make sense of a broken world. Once they started putting on uniforms, they had truly become the Maker’s army.

It didn’t help that none of _them_ had been issued with their uniforms yet. Leliana had made sure she was dressed-up for the occasion, which apparently meant skinny black jeans, low sneakers, and a long, sleeveless, sheer silk blouse with a butterfly design in autumnal colours over a white top. It wasn’t really the kind of thing she’d wear of her own accord, though she had to admit she looked quite good in it. It made her stand out, but Bethany supposed the security detail already made that inevitable. At least Leliana had let her wear a red silk scarf with the outfit. It wasn’t the old, faded neckerchief she’d once been given, and it didn’t hold the same meaning, but it made her feel at ease. Relatively speaking.

“Shall we go over the plan once more?,” Cassandra asked once they were seated across from each other in the armoured car. Bethany nodded. “Very well. Mother Giselle has been able to arrange a meeting with one of the leading clerics in the city. That’s our way in. If we’re careful about this, we can form a faction to oppose Mother Hevara and her hawkish policies. Leliana and Josephine think it would be wise not to present you as the Herald for the moment, and I tend to concur. If pressed directly, however, and I expect you will be, don’t deny it. Just say something pious.”

“Pious, huh.” Bethany gave a wry smile. “I’ll do my best. Do you mind if I let y- Varric do the talking?”

“No. It is you they will want to hear, and your mission that they doubt. You must speak for the Inquisition in this.”

“Right. No pressure.”

Blackwall gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, my lady. This is your first time in Val Royeaux?”

“What? Yeah … yeah. I’ve never actually been to Orlais before today.”

“Well, we should really make some time to view the sights, then. There is no place quite like Val Royeaux anywhere in the world. I’d be happy to show you around.” In his corner, Varric was unaccountably snorting with suppressed laughter.

“Sure, I’d like that. Somehow I doubt we’ll have the time, though.”

Cassandra frowned at her. “Indeed. We have a duty to fulfil, Herald. The future of all Thedas might be at stake here.” And, for once, her features softened. “But I am sure there will be time for you to return here someday. Val Royeaux _is_ the most remarkable city in the world.”

“She says that, even after being to Kirkwall.” Varric sniggered. “Say what you like about stable government, public order and a flourishing culture, there’s nothing that beats regular civil unrest, rampant gang wars and the piss they serve at the Hanged Man.”

Bethany smirked. “I don’t know, I can imagine quite a few things better than that. Breathable air, for instance. You’ll forgive me if my memories of Kirkwall aren’t quite as rosy as yours.” Crossing her legs, she turned to Blackwall. “So, where are you from? Your accent says Marcher, but Blackwall is a Fereldan name.”

“Markham, actually. Got Fereldan roots. And our air was very breathable, thank you very much. I haven’t been back there for years, though.”

“And what about you, Cassandra? I can tell you’re Nevarran, but …”

The car came to a sudden halt. Only now did Bethany notice the low rumbling noise echoing through the vehicle from outside. Leaning forward, she drew back the curtain on the window to peek outside. It took a moment before she could make out details in the throng of bodies surrounding the car. The Inquisition’s agents and the gendarmes had formed a security cordon around the car and were trying to hold the crowd back. Through the sound-proofed, armoured chassis, they had been unable to make out any sound. “What’s going on? I wasn’t aware of any riots in the city.”

“That’s a good question.” Cassandra sharply pounded her fist against the dividing window to the driver’s compartment. “Driver, what’s happening out there?”

The intercom crackled to life. “Sorry about this, ser. There seems to be some kind of rally in front of us. It’s blocking access to the Place du Soleil, I’m afraid.” That, Bethany realised with some excitement, must be their destination – one of the most famous cityscapes in all of Thedas, the gargantuan square where the swords of temporal and celestial power crossed, represented by the massive complexes of the Grand Cathedral and the Palace of the Empire, seat of the Divine and the Orlesian National Assembly, respectively.

“And why aren’t the gendarmes doing anything about it?” The Seeker scoffed. “We’re almost on the plaza, are we not? Crowd looks fairly peaceful. We can go by foot.” Forcefully, she pushed open the car’s thick steel doors and jumped outside. “Stay behind me.”

To Bethany’s considerable relief, the crowd did not erupt like the smouldering volcano she had thought it to be. In fact, it was fairly small – perhaps a few hundred people. But their fervour more than made up for their numbers, and Bethany suspected this was a rather spontaneous rally. Despite the Inquisition’s emblems on their uniforms and armbands, few seemed to register their presence. They were chanting. _Avenge our Divine! The Maker wills it!_

“I wish I was as popular after my death,” Varric shouted over the noise.

“This isn’t a joke, Varric. These people must have loved Justinia.”

“Enough to start a war on her behalf?”

Cassandra snorted. “If these people get their way, there will be war with Tevinter within the month. Maybe we should find out whoever’s in charge of this rally.”

A roaring cheer rose above the crowd as a new speaker took the stage on the back of a truck parked just ahead, before the closed brass gates to the Place du Soleil. “Good people of Val Royeaux!,” a woman’s voice echoed over the crowd. Bethany twisted her neck to catch a glimpse of her, but could only make out heads. There was a small TV crew already in place.

“I recognise that voice,” the Seeker shouted back at them. “It is Grand Cleric Hevara.”

“Our greatest opponent in the Chantry, huh? Well, I’d be interested in hearing what she’s got to say about us.”

“We have a meeting scheduled with the Grand Chancellor, we don’t have …”

“And there they are, right in our midst! The serpents who seek to poison the one true faith, and conspire to subvert your empire for their Tevinter masters. You cannot hide forever, Inquisition!”

Varric sighed. “Well, so much for discretion.”

Ignoring his comment, Cassandra turned on her heel and approached the truck. She took the handful of steps up to the stage in her stride, prompting Hevara’s Templar security detail to reach for their weapons. To her credit, the grand cleric didn’t even flinch. The crowd jeered, loudly. “No, no, good people, let her speak. I do not know how your Tevinter masters do these things, but here in Orlais, we believe in freedom of speech and due process. And there you stand, brazen as ever. Our late Divine trusted you, Seeker Pentaghast. How long did it take you to betray her? Were her ashes even cold yet?”

For a brief moment, Bethany could see white-hot fury flash in the Seeker’s eyes before she caught herself again. “ _I_ never betrayed Most Holy. This Inquisition was founded on her orders, and on her wishes. The only ones betraying Justinia are you and your cronies, by pushing for war when the Chantry needs peace, now more than ever.” She turned to face the camera. Lady Montilyet was going to have a field day with this, wasn’t she? “I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine, a Hero of Orlais, and I stand proudly with the Inquisition! We seek only to restore order to the world, as the Divine commanded us …”

   Hevara scowled. “Your lies will fall on deaf ears here. You have already started a war, when you murdered the Most Holy. Is it not true that the Inquisition harbours dangerous apostates in its midst? Is it not convenient that the Left and Right Hands of the Divine just _happened_ to absent themselves from the Temple of the Sacred Ashes the morning of the attack?”

“Baseless speculation. I warn you, Your Grace, if you are implying that _I_ had a part in the Most Holy’s death …”

“Implying?! There is no need for that, not when the truth stands so plainly for all to see! One need only ask oneself, who benefits from the death of the Divine? From the destruction of the holiest of holy sites? From the desolation into which our holy mother Chantry has been thrown? And who, but Tevinter, benefits from an army of fanatics and heretics throwing Orlais into chaos? You, Seeker, have betrayed your oaths, your uniform, and your Maker! Shame! _Shame!_ ”

If Cassandra had a retort to that, Bethany did not hear it. A whisper went through the crowd, then a rumbling, before it finally erupted into cheers. She craned her neck to spy a glimpse of what had caused these exultations. Mother Hevara and the Seeker had also noticed the commotion, and were staring in the direction of the Grand Cathedral. A large group of people had emerged from the massive chantry’s main portal, formed up in a tight marching formation, and was approaching them. Against the glare of the sunlight on the shining white marble of the square, it was difficult to make out who they were, but Bethany was fairly sure she knew nevertheless. “The Templars! The brave Templars of Val Royeaux are marching to avenge the Divine!”

After that, Hevara’s audience dissolved into a nervous, giddy mess, all aflutter with excitement as they pressed their bodies against the finely wrought brass gates to the Place du Soleil to welcome the Templars. The Templars had returned to the fold! They would smite the rebel mages once and for all, and mount the banner of the true faith right next to that of Orlais on the walls of Minrathous … “The Royans certainly are fond of their Templars,” Bethany darkly commented to Varric. “It’s as if we’re already at war with Tevinter.”

“That’s Val Royeaux for you. Capital of the free world! The Big Pomegranate! City of light, city of wonders! But if you look beneath the thin veneer of modernity, you’ll find a city that in some ways seems to be stuck in the Middle Ages. For most Royans, the Exalted Marches never really ended. Did you know that most Royan elves still require a special dispensation to live and work outside the alienages?”

Bethany was aghast and, for a moment, distracted from the approaching Templars. “But that’s barbaric!,” she uttered without thinking. “It’s been almost sixty years since the Elven Rights Movement. Why isn’t anyone doing something about it?”

“Well, you see, technically the Orlesian state does not discriminate against elves or anyone else. They can vote and stand for the National Assembly, they can serve in the army, all that shit. But there’s nothing stopping local government from getting creative with the law, and – here they come.”

The Templars had come to a halt as the gates were opened for them, trying to remain suitably stoic in the face of the adulations showered on them by the people at the rally. To Bethany’s surprise, not a few of their faces showed – instead of the quiet satisfaction she would have expected – undisguised disgust. Once the way was clear, the Templars’ commander took point, a tall, gaunt and pale man with receding hair. The uniform he wore was not a Templar one, and had until recently been quite unfamiliar to her. She glanced up at Cassandra on the stage, who wore the same uniform. Her customary scowl had been replaced by an expression of unadulterated shock. “Welcome, Lord Seeker!,” Hevara called out. “It is a great joy to see the Order return to the fold. These brave citizens have been praying for you to march …” The grand cleric halted and broke off when the Lord Seeker and a handful of Templar officers separated from the column and, elbowing their way through the crowd, ascended the stairs at the back of the stage. Ignoring Cassandra, he stepped up to the grand cleric.

“Cease your prattling, woman,” the Lord Seeker growled loudly enough for the microphones to capture it, raised a gloved fist and struck Hevara down. Like one man, the crowd gasped as he turned to face it. “Go home. Your business here is finished.” Paying no heed to their reaction, he then addressed Hevara’s stunned Templar bodyguards. “Follow me, if your hearts be firm. Val Royeaux and its people are not worthy of your protection. Templars, march!”

By the time Bethany, Blackwall and Varric had been able to make their way to the platform, the Lord Seeker and his Templars had already resumed their march down the Avenue de l’Empire. Not a stone was thrown, not a curse uttered as the crowd Hevara had rallied silently looked on.

Hevara had been struck to the ground, and was being tended to by a pair of sisters from her entourage. As Bethany knelt by her side to help, the elderly cleric looked rather more frail than she had before. “This must please you,” Hevara said, grinding the words out through a broken nose and a bleeding mouth. “Orlais now stands defenceless before you, Inquisition …”

Behind her, Cassandra had broken her stunned silence to rail against the Lord Seeker, but Bethany paid her no heed. She had never been any good at healing spells, but at least she could stop the bleedings until an ambulance arrived. “Please, let me see your nose …”

Chortling, the grand cleric spat out a bit of blood. “What, so you can finish the job? You must be very proud of yourself, killing a defenceless old woman. Well, what are you waiting for? I _know_ what you people are up to. I won’t let you turn us all over to Tevinter, I promise you that.”

Exasperated, Bethany case a fairly haphazard _Heal_ in the vague direction of Hevara’s face. It would have to do. One of the attendant sisters let out a small gasp at the sight of the magical gleam around the grand cleric’s nose. “No one is turning anyone over. The Inquisition only intends to help. To close the Breach and restore order to the world.”

Hevara’s eyes widened. “Maker above, you really do believe that, don’t you, girl? Word of advice, then. Get out while you still can. This … _Inquisition_  … is not an instrument of the Maker’s will. You are a mage … stay away from them, as far as you can. If you let them, they’ll turn you into a tool of their foul agenda.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we? Have some faith, Your Grace. Perhaps Andraste watches over us yet.” She rose to her feet. “Cassandra? Are you alright?”

“I still can’t believe Lord Seeker Lucius did that,” the Seeker muttered under her breath as they descended from the stage. The crowd was already dispersing, street theatre done with. “I’ve always known him as a moderate, a reasonable and devout man. Attacking a grand cleric in the middle of a rally is _not_ like him at all.”

“Whether it’s like him or not, he did do it,” Varric pointed out. “Shit has officially hit the fan. We still going to that meeting with the grand chancellor?”

“We … yes. We must not forget why we came here. Come, we are already late.”

The Inquisition’s delegation made their way onto the square. Bethany was amazed at its size – though she had seen pictures, nothing could have prepared her for actually standing in it. It seemed as though the whole of Kirkwall’s Hightown would have fit on the Place du Soleil, and have had space to spare. And then there was the Grand Cathedral itself – like the Palace of the Empire opposite it, clad entirely in white marble and decorated in gold and polished bronze. Along the balustrades lining the building’s roofs, statues of the saints looked down on them with watchful eyes. And in the middle of the square, between the cathedral’s wings, the famous tower housing the sacred flame was ever alight with holy fire, bathing the complex around it in flickering light. Even now, even here, one could hear the Chant being sung inside, beautiful and ethereal. _Let all repeat the Chant of Light / only the Word dispels the darkness around us._

This, Bethany thought as they made their way to a side entrance, this was what Val Royeaux should be. A living, breathing city, yes, a metropolis of the Dragon Age, but also the bulwark of the faith and a reflection of the Golden City in the world. Had the city not been founded to serve as the beating heart from which the Chant would fill all the corners of the world with divine light?

They were received at the side entrance by a stern-looking mother. “We have been expecting you,” she said without introduction. “Follow me. You will have to be cleared. Standard security precautions.”

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you do not recognise me. I am Seeker Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine. My clearance level is Excelsior Magenta …”

“That has been revoked due to recent events. You will have to go through the same security screening as everyone else. I trust you understand.”

The Seeker made her displeasure known with a grunt, but made no further protest. Their group was led through a metal detector, patted down, photographed, and finally fitted with visitor IDs. Bethany was only mildly surprised that they had her real name on file. “Seeker Pentaghast, Serah Hawke, the grand chancellor will see you now. Warden-Constable, Messer Tethras, if you would follow Sister Charlotte to a waiting room.”

They were led into a roomy office overlooking the square. There was a small prie-dieu in a corner and a large round conference table across from the desk. Grand Chancellor Roderick, an aging, tired-looking, ill-shaven man with steely grey eyes, stood by the window as they entered, watching the departure of the Templars. His robes were creased, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. “What a day,” he murmured as they entered, seemingly without noticing them. “The whole world’s going mad. First the mages, then the Divine, and now the Templars …” He looked up and only now seemed to register their presence. “Seeker, Enchanter. Welcome. Please, sit.” Once they were seated around the table, Roderick immediately got down to business. “The surviving grand clerics and I have had a number of policy meetings since last we met. The College has surveyed all available evidence of Serah Hawke’s ability to close Fade rifts, and found no signs of tampering or manipulation. In light of this, and on the recommendation of Mother Giselle, I have invited you to join us. That does not remove her as a suspect in the matter of the Divine’s murder, do I make myself understood?”

Bethany nodded. “Perfectly. If there is to be a trial, I’m at your disposal.”

“The College has decided not to install a canonical tribunal for the time being. Let me be clear with you, Enchanter. I don’t trust you. The College doesn’t trust you. Some of the grand clerics think you are an abomination and should be put to the sword. Your background certainly does not help matters. The sole reason we are talking at all is your mark. That said, the College has decided not to denounce your Inquisition as a heretical, schismatic sect.”

“We appreciate that, Chancellor,” Cassandra said. “The Inquisition seeks only to restore order, not to overthrow or undermine the Chantry.”

The grand chancellor sighed. “I know you as a good and faithful woman, Seeker. If there is a plot against the Chantry, you are but a pawn in it. Now, on to business. In return for its leniency, the College demands that the Inquisition clearly define itself either as an Andrastian lay order in full communion with Val Royeaux or as a purely secular institution. Either way, you will not make any pronouncements on matters of doctrine, liturgy, the Chant, or the communion of saints. This point is non-negotiable.”

Bethany glanced at Cassandra. It didn’t seem that good a deal to her. What if she … she stopped herself. What a strange, strange thought! Whence had it sprung? There was no reason for the Inquisition to make any kind of statement on matters of the faith, after all. But even as she thought that, she felt a nagging doubt at the back of her head. Justinia’s legacy had to be protected, she knew, if there was to be peace, and then there was more, something she couldn’t quite describe but knew in the deepest core of her heart.

“We can do that,” Cassandra said. “As I said, the Inquisition has no desire to interfere with the Chantry. There is a condition we have in return, however.”

Roderick raised an eyebrow. “Let’s hear it.”

“Serah Hawke has survived what killed so many others by physically entering the Fade and has returned with a power unlike any we have ever seen, and some say she was led back through the Veil by Our Lady herself. You must know that many already call her the Herald of Andraste.” The Seeker half-rose to her feet, forming her hands into fists. “I do not presume to confirm or deny that. The will of the Maker is not for me to know. But it is a possibility that cannot be rejected out of hand. Should there be – evidence, any evidence, that Hawke’s mark is a sign of divine favour, I want the Chantry to stand behind her in this.”

“That is a big demand. A very big demand. The Herald of Andraste – that touches on the very foundations of our religion. You cannot imagine the chaos that would follow such a proclamation.”

“The faith is hardly unshaken as it is. Neither is the world. As you well know, civil government in the Dales and south-western Ferelden has already broken down. I’ve seen Chantry mothers speak law and administer justice. The people are frightened, Messer Chancellor. And they look to the Chantry for answers. Surely the news that Andraste still watches over her people and has sent a herald to deliver us from darkness would strengthen the hearts of the faithful.”

The chancellor leaned back in his chair, his eyes flitting back and forth between Bethany and Cassandra. “And just what does she herald? The end of days? The return of the Maker? The second coming of Andraste?” He chortled. “The end of the Great Schism?”

“Chancellor …”

“And you, Serah Hawke? This is your … _mission_ we are talking about, after all. Seeker Pentaghast here already seems to take you for the chosen one. Do you, too, believe yourself to be the Herald of Our Lady?”

Bethany blushed, she had not expected the question – though it was one she had oft asked herself these past few weeks, without ever quite finding an answer. “I don’t know,” she meekly said. “I just … I don’t think Andraste would choose someone like me.”

“A mage.”

“Yes. Maybe this mark on my hand is just an accident. But someone … someone reminded me recently that there are no accidents. That the Maker guides all that happens in this world. I don’t presume to know what the mark on my hand means. I’m just … trying to help where I can.”

The chancellor nodded, somewhat hesitantly. “That does sound like Giselle. It's a noble sentiment. In any case, I will bring your request to the attention of the College, but I'm not making any promises. In the meantime …”

There was a brief buzz from the phone on the desk. A tinny voice said: “ _Chancellor, the expert has arrived._ ”

“Show her in.” Turning back to Cassandra and Bethany, Roderick raised a hand to his face. “My apologies. I am losing track of my appointments. I have taken the liberty of inviting an expert on thaumic weapons from the Orlesian army’s Centre for Strategic Deterrence to brief us on the nature of the Breach …”

The door opened. The woman who entered was, in a word, brilliant: she carried herself with the conviction and assurance of a great noble, yet carried a mage’s staff at her side. Though her head was shaven bald, her make-up, shoes and costume were all picture-perfect. It took Bethany a moment to realise that the staff was closely matched to her outfit, picking up the pattern on her cravat and the colour of her discreet heels. “Welcome, please, come in. Seeker, Enchanter Hawke, allow me to introduce you to Brigadier Vivienne de la Ferre, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and director of the Imperial Army’s Centre for Strategic Deterrence.”

“As well as strategic advisor to the Council of State in thaumic matters,” De la Ferre added. Despite her Rivaini features, her accent was upper-class Royan. Bethany was somewhat surprised, she hadn’t realised the Orlesians let mages serve in their armed forces – but for that matter, she wasn’t wearing a uniform either. A civilian appointment, then? “Cassandra, darling, it’s been so long. Put on a little weight since the conference at Val Chevin, haven’t you? And you must be the infamous Herald of Andraste. Such a pleasure.”

“Uh, likewise.”

“Now, shall we begin?” De la Ferre sat at the table between Cassandra and the chancellor, and produced a small notebook and a fountain pen (both also were matched to her outfit). “As you know, both the Centre for Strategic Deterrence and the International Thaumic Exploitation Agency have sent teams to survey ground zero and the Breach. Unfortunately, their findings were inconclusive.”

Cassandra frowned. “Surely there must be ways to determine if a thaumic weapon was used to create the Breach. After all, our own people have found above-average levels of thaumic radiation around ground zero.”

“There are other explanations for that,” Chancellor Roderick pointed out. “It is a little-known fact that the Temple of Sacred Ashes sat upon a vast deposit of raw lyrium. As I understand it, some kind of corrupted lyrium has been sighted on the surface. That might be the source of the radiation.”

“Quite so, chancellor. On the other hand, the Veilstrength index around the Breach is dangerously low, though it has stabilised since you halted the Breach’s growth.”

Somewhat sceptically, Bethany said: “I’m sorry, this is not my field. What exactly does that mean? Surely you would expect the Veilstrength to be low around the Breach.”

“True, and normally I would not have mentioned it. However, we have seen similar readings twice before. The first time was during the Golden City tests in the Hissing Wastes in 8:46 Blessed. The second was caused by the Vyrantium bomb – Wrath of Heaven – later that year.”

There was a pregnant pause. Finally, Cassandra asked: “There have been thaumic weapons tests since. What made those different?”

“Our earliest bombs were built differently. Raw lyrium in sufficient amounts was difficult to come by during the war. Furthermore, the intended mode of deployment – being smuggled into the sewers of Vyrantium by a Templar strike force – placed limits on the size and mass of the bomb. It would not have been sufficient to reach critical mass. The teams involved compensated by overcharging the lyrium with mana by up to 1500 per cent. This made the core extraordinarily volatile. As you may know, one of the Templar commandos had to stay behind to maintain the seals until it was time for detonation. After the war, we switched to different designs that not only were stable enough to be used as warheads and drop bombs, but also had less impact on the Veilstrength.”

The chancellor leaned forward. “But the Vyrantium bomb didn’t tear the sky apart,” he said. “And by all reports, Serah Hawke here has physically entered the Fade. There must be more to it than that.”

“There are certain blood magic rituals that can weaken the Veil,” Bethany pointed out. “I’ve seen some of them used in Kirkwall, and the ancient magisters who caused the Blight also used blood magic to enter the Fade. Would it be possible for whoever did this to have used a thaumic weapon to sacrifice thousands of people all at once to fuel a ritual?”

Cassandra and the chancellor shot her wary looks, but de la Ferre raised an elegantly-arched eyebrow. “That is one possibility we are considering, yes. Assuming that we _are_ dealing with a thaumic attack, however, there are more urgent matters at stake.”

“Who is behind it,” the Seeker finished the suggestion. No reply was necessary. That was the question, wasn’t it? Once they had answers to that, maybe they’d find answers to the Breach as well. But somehow Bethany knew it couldn’t be as easy as that. “Among the thaumic powers, only Tevinter and the dwarves of Orzammar benefit from the destruction of the Chantry’s leadership and the chaos that has engulfed southern Thedas. And the dwarves don’t have mages.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain, Seeker,” Roderick opined. “After the fall of the Circles, we no longer have any effective means of tracking mages. I suspect no small amount of apostates will have found employment with the dwarves.”

“But Orzammar depends on a strong surface, or at least a wealthy one. They’re still recovering from the Blight. Tevinter seems like a more likely candidate.”

When de la Ferre spoke, her voice carried through the room like prophecy. “There is one more possibility we must not neglect,” she said, before making a few quick gestures that Bethany recognised as belonging to muffling spells. “What I am about to say is not to leave this room under any circumstances. Seeker, Enchanter Hawke, you are not strictly-speaking authorised to know this, but in times like these protocols may be bent. For the last four months … the Orlesian Empire has not been in full control, nor aware of the whereabouts of parts of its thaumic arsenal.”

There was a moment of profound silence. Bethany wasn’t quite sure if she had understood the doctor correctly. Surely no one could _lose_ a thaumic weapon …?

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Cassandra had risen to her feet. “Orlais has an Empty Quiver and this is how we learn about it?”

“A _potential_ Empty Quiver, my dear. Without going into details, central command has lost contact with a number of our thaumic missile silos in the Dales. Satellite imagery suggests that at least three of them have been captured by the Chalonais rebel forces. Now, we do not know for certain whether the warheads have been removed from their silos. If they have, they still would not be able to fire them without the proper command codes.”

“But once they have the warheads, they could reprogram the codes, or short-circuit it, something like that. Maker above, how could your people have allowed this to happen?”

De la Ferre ignored the last bit. “Dear, do not take us for imbeciles. Thaumic warheads are designed to prevent any tampering. As the rebels do not control appropriate facilities, the moment they attempt to alter the command codes manually, they will be in the possession of a piece of highly radioactive junk -- what we call a dirty bomb. Dangerous, but controllable. Rather more threatening is the possibility that the rebels have sold the warheads to another, unknown party. Alternatively, we are also considering the outside chance that a terrorist group has engineered their own device.”

“Would that be possible?”

“In theory. The physics involved in a thaumic reaction are no secret, you can look them up in any undergraduate textbook. Any sufficiently large group of mages and Templars could create a simple thaumic bomb. The difficulty lies in the high-precision engineering required and the acquisition and handling of the raw lyrium. As far as I know, Orlesian intelligence is not currently aware of any non-government groups possessing those capabilities.”

“In other words, we know as little as we did before.” Cassandra snorted. “We need more than that.”

Bethany disagreed. “At least we know what we’re dealing with. Understanding the Breach is the first step to closing it. As the First Enchanter said, someone probably used an old-fashioned thaumic weapon. I think the Inquisition should pursue that line of inquiry.” Even as she said that, she felt her cheeks flush red. Maker, she was getting more and more involved in this, wasn’t she? It was not as if she really had a choice, not with the mark, but discussing the Inquisition’s policies was a different matter entirely.

But Cassandra gave a hesitant nod. “I shall ask Leliana to assign resources to that. In the meantime … chancellor, you will consider our request?”

“So long as the Inquisition does not exceed its authority, I promise I will bring your request before the College.”

“We can ask no more. Now, if there is nothing else …”

“I believe we are finished here. Give my regards to Mother Giselle. And, please, try not to start a holy war.”

That comment, and its perfectly dry delivery, actually forced a smirk upon Cassandra’s stern face. “We’ll try.” They rose, as did de la Ferre. Together, the three women stepped out of the chancellor’s office. “Thank you for coming, First Enchanter. I realise you must be quite busy at the moment.”

“Not as such, no. In fact, my dear Seeker, I am as of today unemployed – though of course my Circle still stands.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“This morning, I stepped down from the directorship of the Centre for Strategic Deterrence and resigned my civilian officer’s commission. Right now, there are other fields I want to work in.”

Cassandra raised a wary eyebrow. “Such as?”

De la Ferre glanced out of one of the tall windows that lined the corridor on the skyline of Val Royeaux. Here and there, eerie green lights reflected on the glass walls of the skyscrapers. Rifts? Bethany hoped she would get to close some of them later that day. It was painful to see the suffering and devastation the sundering of the Veil had caused to the cities of southern Thedas. “Right now,” de la Ferre said, “the most important, engaging and, indeed, promising way to serve Orlais is your Inquisition. I offer you my services, Seeker.”

At that, Cassandra bristled. “And what makes you think we want them? What do you bring to the Inquisition?”

“We need all the help we can get,” Bethany pointed out, but de la Ferre had already jumped on the opportunity.

“To begin with, I am and remain the First Enchanter of Montsimmard, leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas. Apart from that, I am an expert in thaumic weapons, their development and use. I hold doctorates from the Universities of Orlais and Halamshiral in Thaumic Physics respectively Thaumic Security and Non-proliferation. I know everyone worth knowing in the Great Game, and many of them owe me favours. And if that does not suffice to meet your _exacting_ standards, I am also a mage of considerable talent.”

Bethany and Cassandra shared a glance. “I’m sold,” said Bethany, shrugging.

The Seeker grunted. “Follow us.”

They picked up Blackwall and Varric on the way out. “We’re to clear a few strategically important rifts here in Val Royeaux before we return to Haven,” Bethany explained once introductions were over. “The Orlesian army has all of them secured, so it should be smooth sailing. You’re welcome to join us, First Enchanter … doctor? Brigadier? I’m not sure what to call you.”

“I am no longer a brigadier, my dear. First Enchanter is quite correct. Madame de la Ferre would be a less unwieldy alternative.”

“Still plenty unwieldy if you ask me,” Varric murmured under his breath. Madame de la Ferre gave the dwarf a punishing look that made it very clear he was not being asked.

Following some impromptu diplomacy with the Orlesian police, the Inquisition’s driver had been escorted onto the Place du Soleil, and thus the car was waiting for them when they left the Grand Cathedral. As the Inquisition’s delegation plus de la Ferre made themselves comfortable in the spacious rear of the car, Cassandra discussed the route they were going to take. As far as Bethany recalled the briefing they had received in Haven that morning, she was due to close half a dozen rifts in areas the Orlesian government had designated as strategically important.

Despite her initial difficulties, closing rifts was becoming fairly trivial. She went in, pointed her palm at it, braced for the impact and hoped for the best. The hard bit was, in a lot of cases, actually getting to the rifts and keeping down the demons pouring out of them – though lately, the armies and police forces of Ferelden and Orlais had increasingly gotten rifts in urban areas under control. Six rifts wasn’t going to be any trouble at all, Bethany figured, and maybe she’d manage to get a seventh done before they had to fly back to Haven.

Still, she thought, lunch would be nice first.

“So what’s our first stop?,” Blackwall asked Cassandra as the car joined the traffic circling around the Place du Soleil.

The Seeker checked her map. “There’s a Class A rift at the corner of Avenue des Marguerites and the Les Gardes des Ombres Victorieux. Apparently it’s obstructing a major artery of commercial traffic.”

De la Ferre in the seat opposite them raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lovely area. I’ve an old friend who owns a villa on the Marguerites. I would hardly call it a major thoroughfare, though. It’s mostly residential these days.”

Varric leaned forward, looking mildly amused. “Now there’s a bit of genuine Orlesian local colour. I imagine all the nobs and politicians and CEOs live there?”

Bethany and Cassandra shared an uncomfortable look. If this was true, and the list drawn up by the Orlesian government had been altered – presumably at some cost – there was no way to be sure the rest of the rifts on the list would be as obstructive as they had thought they were. “What about the other rifts here in Val Royeaux? What about the alienages? Motorways? Industrial zones?”

Scowling, Cassandra had another look at her map. “Not in Class A. There’s a few in the financial centre, but apart from that it mostly seems to be upper-class residential areas.”

“What are we going to do, then?,” Bethany asked. She felt like this was the sort of thing  they’d better consult Josephine on, but considering the state of the Ferelden talks, interrupting her with a call probably wasn’t the best option.

“I don’t think we have any choice in this. The Orlesians don’t trust us as it is. We need to stick to their list, show some goodwill.”

   Bethany looked away. This was not how her mark was supposed to be used. “I don’t like this,” she said. “The Inquisition should be for everyone, not just the rich and powerful.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but we need the support of the Orlesians …”

De la Ferre straightened up in her seat and threw an imperious glance out of the window. “Well, I do believe this conversation is academic. We’re not, in fact, going to Les Gardes des Ombres. We just drove into the Rue Jules-Pihet towards the harbour.”

For an instant, Cassandra stared at the First Enchanter, before turning around and lowering the dividing all to the driver’s compartment. “Driver, where are we going? This isn’t the way to Les Gardes des Ombres.”

“I … I’m just following the directions from the satnav, ser.”

“Is it broken?”

“I don’t think so, ser. It may have been tampered with. Shall I go offline and reboot the system?”

“No. Keep following the satnav. Let’s see where this leads us.” Cassandra raised the dividing wall. “Varric, under your seat there should be a steel lockbox. Would you mind …”

After some digging, the dwarf found the lockbox and put it on the seat between him and Blackwall. It looked rather like an aluminium briefcase, if not for its angular shape and the heavy padlock at its front. Reaching inside her jacket, Cassandra produced a small key and unlocked it. The case contained two rather evil-looking black guns that Bethany thought were too large to be pistols and too small to be rifles. “Blackwall, take an SMG and keep it concealed. We don’t know what to expect at our destination. Varric …”

“Don’t worry about me, Seeker. There’s only one weapon in my life, and that’s Bianca. You take the other one.”

“Anyone else thinks it’s disturbing that we just happen to have a couple of SMGs with us? No? Just me?”

Almost on cue, the car came to a stop. “Ser, the army appears to have blocked the road ahead. There is no other way to reach our destination,” the driver announced through the intercom.

Cassandra grunted with displeasure. “Acknowledged.” She stuffed the SMG into her uniform jacket and rose to her feet. “Let’s go see whoever is in command here, see if they can clear this up.”

When they stepped outside the car, it became abundantly clear that they weren’t in one of the better quarters of the city. Between the decrepit apartment buildings and boarded-up storefronts, a squad of the Orlesian military had set up a road block of sand sacks and barbed wire. “Hold it right there,” an elven serjeant said as they approached, her finger on her rifle’s trigger guard. “This is a restricted area. Turn around and leave.” A pair of her comrades joined her, clearly expecting trouble.

Cassandra turned her armband around so the soldiers could see the Inquisition’s emblem on it. “We’re with the Inquisition. My name is Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry. What’s going on here?”

Somewhat hesitantly, the serjeant straightened up. Bethany noted that her finger remained on her trigger guard. “There’s a rift in the middle of the Rue Baillieu. The whole area is sealed off. You can’t stay here. Ser.”

Ignoring her protests, Cassandra stepped up to the barrier. “Someone led us here by manipulating our satnav. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, serjeant?”

“What? Er, no, ser. And if you don’t have authorisation to be here, I must really ask you to leave …”

There was a buzzing noise from Cassandra’s jacket. This must be Josephine, Bethany thought, knowing that the diplomat had promised to keep them appraised of the negotiations with Ferelden on the HMS _King Calenhad._ “Excuse me.” As she checked the new message, a grim smirk appeared on the Seeker’s face. “Guess that’s who hacked our satnav,” she commented, before showing the message to Bethany and the others.

It took her a moment to skim the lengthy text message. “Well, that’s original. Is that supposed to be a shade?”

“I think it’s a bee, actually. It’s hard to tell, but I think all the eights are black and all the periods are yellow …”

“Whatever it is,” Vivienne concluded, “the spelling and grammar are deplorable. Cassandra, darling, this is clearly an infantile prank. We shouldn’t encourage things like this.”

The Seeker shook her head. Was that actual amusement on her face? “The Orlesians are playing us for fools. This place has been hit harder than the villas up at Les Gardes could ever be, and if our anonymous prankster is right, there’s still people alive back there.”

“Impossible!,” the serjeant exclaimed. “We did a thorough search before we set up the perimeter three weeks ago. Even if someone had survived the initial onslaught, there’s no way they’d still be alive. I’m in command here, and there’s no way in hell you’re getting through here.”

Cassandra’s phone buzzed again. “ _Fascist arsehat_ ,” she read out loud. Blackwall was trying to keep a straight face.

“I _beg_ your pardon?!”

The Seeker put her phone back in her jacket. “Nevermind. Hawke, what do you think? It _is_ your mark.”

Steeling herself, Bethany nodded. “If there’s the slightest chance anyone is still alive, we need to help them. And if everyone is dead … there’ll still be people who managed to get out before the rift opened. They’ll want to return home.”

“My thoughts exactly. Serjeant, we shall require your troops to clear out the demons around the rift.”

“Well, you’re not bloody well getting it. I don’t know who you’re supposed to be, but you’re not walking in there, one way or the other. Now get the Void out of here before we open fire.”

There was another buzz, and another one, and a third one in short succession. Cassandra didn’t bother to read the new messages. “Now listen here, serjeant. The Inquisition demands, the Herald of Andraste requires, and I _ask_ that you let us through right this instant. I shall not ask again. Now for the love of Our Lady will you step aside or do I have to call your superior?”

“Dread Wolf take you,” the serjeant growled at them. “Go and get yourselves killed for all I care. This is on your head, not mine.”

Roughly shoving her aside, Cassandra moved past the road block. Bethany shot the soldiers an apologetic glance, after all, they were only doing their jobs. Once they were inside the perimeter, the Seeker, Blackwall and Vivienne almost automatically took her in their midst. She wished she’d brought her staff with her; it was always good to have something to fall back on once you ran out of mana.

The rift was located just around the corner of the street, between burned-out cars and shopfronts. It looked fairly normal, except … “I don’t see any demons.”

Visibly tensing, Cassandra nodded. “Stay sharp.” She unbuttoned her uniform jacket and readied her SMG, as did Blackwall.

Slowly, carefully, the Inquisition’s group approached the rift. As always, the tear was alight with Veilgleam, pulsing organically as reality seemed to breathe in and out. A shiver ran through Bethany’s body, starting from her marked hand, rising through her arm and travelling along her spine. “It’s certainly active,” she said. “I’ve got a feeling demons come through here all the time. Someone must have cleared them out before us.”

“Not an easy task. Maybe the army patrols …” Cassandra was interrupted by the telltale crackle of a demon coming through the rift. Almost instantly, her and Blackwall slid into cover behind the blackened shells of burned-out cars and readied their weapons. Bethany prepared a Fireball as a darkish silhouette began to materialise, took the form of a shade, and came into being –

 The sound was barely audible over the noises of the city all around them, but the bullet tore through the demon’s fleshy skull nonetheless, banishing it with one stroke. Then, there was the unmistakeable _pling_ of a rifle’s slide being drawn back. Then, a woman’s voice from somewhere above them shouted: “Oi, get a move on, will you?!”

“That would be our anonymous prankster then,” Cassandra murmured. “Go ahead, we’ll cover you..” Warily, Bethany approached the rift. For now, it seemed to have calmed. As she raised her hand towards it, she felt the familiar tugging again. For an instant, the border between reality and dream quivered, then a sharp jolt flashed through her as she reached into the Fade and for an instant was a conduit of pure, infinite magic. The pain was gone as quickly as it had come, and then the rift was no more and the Veil was mended.

The unseen woman cheered. “Enough games!,” Cassandra yelled. “Show yourself!”

There was some noise. Something shattered in one of the abandoned buildings lining the street. Finally, a fairly tall and lanky elf girl in a red sweatshirt appeared in one of the doorways, a laptop pouch under one arm and a bulky-looking rifle slung over her shoulder, grinning brightly even at the sight of two SMGs pointed at her. “Aggressive, much, are we? Keep it down a bit, we’re on the same side here.”

“You said that there were survivors here. Prove it.”

“Right to the punch, eh? Like it. I’ll show you.” With no apparent concern for the guns pointed at her, the elf strode past them, side-stepping the greenish goo the rift had left behind, and crossed the street. Blackwall and Bethany shared a confused look.

The door of number 74 Rue Baillieu had been torn off its hinges, half-obstructing the doorway. Single-file, they made their way inside what had once been the stairwell of an apartment building. With the lightbulbs blown out, it was dark enough that they had to use their phones’ flashlights to light their way. “Downstairs,” the elf said, “I put a fridge in front of the cellar door!”

“… why?”

“So the arse can’t get out, duh.”

“I _thought_ we were here to help people.”

“Sure. Just not this guy. Here, gimme a hand, big girl.” With Cassandra’s help, the elf managed to move the fridge far enough to open the cellar door behind it. Bethany marvelled at how the girl had even managed to carry it down the stairs intact. “Now, be careful …”

Ignoring her, Cassandra opened the door and – barely dodged a waft of flame that shot at her and singed her left eyebrow. “Stand down!,” she shouted, taking cover behind the door. “We’re the Inquisition! We’re here to help you!”

An apostate, Bethany thought. And not the clever kind, to be so jumpy. Still, that would explain how they had survived this long.

“Inquisition!,” a man’s voice snarled, speaking Orlesian. Another waft of flame was fired through the half-opened doorway. This time, it hit the stairs without doing any damage. “It must have taken _quite_ a lot of effort to track me down! Ah, but you shan’t take me alive. I just know how eager you must be to take my head as a trophy …”

“Hey, shitface! Say ‘what’!”

“I … what …” In a single, rapid movement, the elf brought up her rifle, sighted, and fired. There was a _pop_ , louder in the cramped stairwell than it had been in the street, and then a _crunch._ Bethany winced. Only one thing could have caused that sound.

Her fears were confirmed when Cassandra charged through the door, gun at the ready. “Clear,” she said after a while. “All hostiles terminated.” Before anyone had a chance to comment, the Seeker was already at the elf girl’s throat. “Enough of your _games._ How about you finally tell us who the hell you are and what your game is?”

“Oi, ease off. Right, right. Anyway, I’m a friend. Name’s Sera. And you’re the Inquisition people …” She glanced at Bethany. “I saw you glow through my scope. Guess you’re that Herald-thingy then, are you? Eh, guess you’re just a person after all.”

She blushed a little. “Some people say that. About the Herald thing. Pretty sure I'm still a person. Why did you kill that man, Sera? What did he do to you?”

The elf giggled. Rather inappropriate, she thought, but there was something disarming about it.. “Me? Shit, I’ve never seen the bugger before in my life. My people said he had it coming, though, so he probably deserved it.”

“He _did_ attack us,” Blackwall cautioned. “The satnav, was that you?”

“Pff, child’s play. You really need to upgrade your GNSS encryptions. Had to get you here somehow, didn’t I? Cause I’ve got an offer for you. My friends and me see what you’re trying to do, and we’d like to help, alright?”

“What friends?”

“Just friends, silly. The Friends of Red Jenny. We’re just people, and we can help you.”

That name caused some consternation from Vivienne and very little from the rest of them. “Who’s Red Jenny? You?”

Sera snorted with laughter. Somehow, Bethany had a feeling that the explanations would take a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Leliana's hoodie is a Star Trek joke. Not a very good one, mind.
> 
> 2) I wasn't sure how far to push the Nazi analogies -- Alistair and Eamon certainly aren't the bad guys. Still, the Enabling Act is pretty much what it says on the tin. 
> 
> 3) The Amaranthine A650 is stepping in for the Gulfstream G650 here. My, what a pretty plane. Lapidus totally is a Lost shout-out.
> 
> 4) "I want to be a part of it -- Royeaux, Royeaux! / These vagabond shoes are longing to stray / right through the very heart of it -- Royeaux, Royeaux!"
> 
> 5) I spent a lot of time thinking about the strategy and physics behind thaumic weapons. In the end, I'm really just waving my hand and saying "A Wizard Did It. They made nukes." Pretty much everything is in some way parallel - the ITEA is the IAEA, the Golden City tests are the Project Trinity experiments, etc. There are some differences in delivery and strategy, and of course the major difference is that you need both Templars (or another way of suppressing magic) and mages to built a thaumic weapon. 
> 
> 6) A lot of elves in the cities no longer follow the Andrastian Chantry. The elven rights movement has caused a certain revival of the ancient elven pantheon, though based on Dalish tradition adapted to the needs and thoughts of city elves. The result is not actually all that dissimilar from Andrastianism, but it serves as a focal point for the elvish community nevertheless.
> 
> 7) Sera uses a marksman rifle adapted to make it nearly inaudible -- a "silencer" or rather suppressor is not actually enough to make a gun silent. Apart from a suppressor, Sera also uses special, heavy subsonic rounds (to eliminate the telltale crackle that results from breaking the sound barrier) and fires her rifle as a bolt-action, as the automatic slide mechanism is another source of noise. And all of this to avoid causing a panic, isn't she nice.
> 
> Please leave a review! Next chapter will feature Redcliffe.


	5. Dal pìu remoto esilio

The ground was a deep, dull grey, darker than the asphalt of the rode that cut through it like a scythe. Scorched and dried despite the heavy rainfalls of the past few weeks, the earth was crackly and hard. Here and there, withered stalks of grain and grass were still lodged in the ground, dead and Blighted years ago. A full decade after the end of the Fifth Blight, the land in these parts still suffered for it. Bethany shuddered at the thought of how Lothering must look these days. They said that the Blight killed even the microbes responsible for decomposition, and that corpses could lie in the Blightlands for year without ever decaying, until wind and weather eroded them to nothing. It was a terrifying thought.

And yet, Bethany thought, rising to her feet, scarcely a dozen metres further down the road, the land was recovering. The Blight had not spread past the Redcliffe Line. Here and there, one could still see the remains of hastily-dug trenches, and spent casings lay between the sparse blades of grass. The earth here had been watered with blood, and prospered for it.

But there, in the distance, a few more kilometres down the motorway, stood Redcliffe. The city’s outskirts had mostly been abandoned as people fled the chaos engulfing the lands southeast of here, but beyond the ancient moats, bastions and crenellations, the cramped oldtown still stood as a bulwark of royal authority. At least that was the theory.

“Ma’am?” Lavellan’s voice tore her from her thoughts. The younger woman looked slightly out-of-place in the neat service uniform she’d been issued with. The gold ADC braid under her left shoulder did not help matters, and had caused endless fidgeting on the drive from Haven. “I’ve registered us. We may enter the suburbs now.”

“Thanks for handling that. Did they give you any trouble?”

The elf shrugged. “Not as much as I’m used to. There’s one good thing you can say about this uniform, it makes people think twice.”

They got back in the car, paperwork taken care of. Lavellan  Much of Redcliffe’s outskirts had been fenced off – whether to keep out refugees from the south-east or rampaging Templars or apostates, none could say. By the roads into the city, armed guards forced all comers through checkpoints, busy even now. Very soon, both sides of the road were lined with rows upon rows of large white tents, housing those refugees lucky enough to have made it to Redcliffe, and unlucky enough not to have made it any further.

“Any updates from Haven?,” Bethany asked as Lavellan joined the long line of cars waiting at one of the checkpoints. “This would be a lot easier if we knew what we were getting into …”

“Sorry, ma’am, nothing yet. Before we left I heard through the grapevine that the Nightingale was trying to intensify her operations in the city, but I’m guessing that takes time.”

Alright then, Bethany thought, leaning back in her seat, they were on their own. She’d met the Grand Enchanter only once before, in relation to the Kirkwall Inquiry, and had no idea how to go about this. When she had lived in Redcliffe, the administrative committee had set up shop in an annex to the old castle – Bethany didn’t really see a reason for that to have changed in her absence, so that was where they’d have to go.

Over the past few weeks, she had repeatedly attempted to contact some of her – acquaintances living in the city, try and get some sort of grip on the situation there. All had been to no avail, and even Leliana’s operations had fallen short of their usual standards by far. It seemed as though the entire city was completely cut off from the phone network, the Internet, and even shortwave radio. The few actual agents that had made it past the fence and had managed to smuggle out messages had yet to make it out of the refugee camps. It was all very mysterious.

Slowly, the queue moved forward. As they got closer to the checkpoint and the city’s fortifications, Bethany noticed that a lot of cars were being turned away or redirected to the refugee camps in the suburbs. She glanced at the small plastic resident’s card in her hand, which had miraculously survived her trip to the Fade. Once, she had used it to collect her food rations and use public transport; now, it would have to suffice to get her and Lavellan into the city.

“You feeling alright, ma’am?,” the elf asked after a while, glancing at her from the corner of her eye. “You’ve been very quiet.”

“It’s nothing. It’s just that it’s a bit odd to come back here. The place seems to have changed a lot since the Conclave.”

“Seems so. You said there were some people you wanted to look up, didn’t you?”

Bethany gave a dry chuckle. “We have to get inside first. Let’s hope the uniform will be enough.”

“It does look rather official, don’t they. If I punch someone, does that make it an act of war?”

That made her laugh. “Careful you don’t get blood on your tie, Ellana. It’s Inquisition property.”

Grinning, the elf rolled her eyes. “My Keeper would love you. Checkpoint coming up, ma’am.”

“Right. Let’s try our best, then:” Slowly, they approached the checkpoint that had been raised at one of the bridges leading into the city. A middle-aged gentleman was seated behind the window, peering down into their car from behind low-sitting spectacles. “Good morning,” Bethany said, forcing a smile on her face.

“What’s with the get-up?,” the man said without a reply.

“We’re with the Inquisition. We need to enter the city.”

“You and a thousand other dregs today. Passports?”

Bethany and Lavellan shared a glance. Somehow, she doubted the Dalish were in the habit of carrying identification issued by human governments. Her own passport, she imagined, had presumably perished at the Conclave. “We don’t have any. We’ve these letters of passage from the Inquisition’s chamberlain and the prime minister of Ferelden …”    

“Turn left, then go straight until you get to Refugee Camp 15. Now move aside, there’s a line behind you.”

“What … hey, hold on a minute! My name’s Hawke, I’ve lived here before – I was on the mage delegation to the Conclave …”

“You don’t look very dead to me. Now get away before I have you removed.”

Frustrated, the two women shared a look. This was going even worse than expected, if such a thing was possible. “We really need to get inside the city,” Bethany told the official, trying not to sound like she was pleading. “This concerns us all. The Inquisition needs to talk to the Grand Enchanter about the Breach. You must let us through.”

“Must I now? You could have a letter from Andraste yourself, the city is full. Only ones allowed to enter are residents and those with a personal invitation from a first enchanter. You don’t have one, so you leave. Now.”

“I don’t imagine Dr de la Ferre would count?,” Lavellan asked Bethany with an aside glance.

“Probably not, she's a Loyalist.” She showed the man her old resident’s card. “Look, I used to live here, on Dromund Lane, not even three months ago. I worked as an instructor at the community school. Just call up the headmistress, Senior Enchanter Lauren Weekes …”

“Uh huh. And what exactly did you teach?”

Bethany frowned. Few non-mages had the faintest clue of how magic worked, let alone the nature of the various schools. Was this supposed to be some sort of test? “Elementary magic, mostly Primal and Creation. I was just starting some of the brighter pupils on Force Magic when I had to leave for the Conclave.”

Her immediate response appeared to have startled the checkpoint official, for he bade them wait in the service lane and made a number of phone calls, which grew longer and longer. Half an hour passed. Eventually, they were called back to the checkpoint, where a resolute, if somewhat elderly lady was waiting for them. “Ms Hawke,” she greeted her, “I did not expect to see you again. They said everyone we sent to the Conclave had perished.”

“Most everyone, I’m afraid. I … well, I got lucky, I suppose. Thanks for driving out here, Senior Enchanter.”

Weekes raised an eyebrow. “Quite. Well, it is good you returned when you did. We need every hand we can get, what with everything going on at the moment.”

She blushed a little. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay. The Inquisition has send me to try and talk to the Grand Enchanter about the Breach.”

If the other woman was disappointed, she did not show it. “I understand. I was wondering – you keep interesting company these days.”

Lavellan held out an unsolicited hand. “Corporal Ellana of Clan Lavellan,” she introduced herself, “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Having shaken the elf’s tattooed hand as though it might have bitten her, Weekes immediately returned her attention to Bethany. “I have classes to get to, but I’ve settled matters with the gentleman. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Good day.”

Lavellan and Bethany shared a look as the headmistress walked away. “How long did you say you worked here?”

“Almost a year.”

“… humans are weird.”

They made their way into the city. Between the walls and Lake Calenhad, Redcliffe's oldtown was full of narrow alleyways and tightly-packed with houses, many dating back to the Storm Age. Before the war, some 650,000 people had lived in the city, though mostly in the suburbs. Now, who could say? But never, Bethany was certain, never since the days of the ancient Imperium had there been this many mages assembled in one place, beholden only to their own consciences, with all the good and ill that brought with it. Their presence was plain for all to see. Here, a woman holding an enchanter’s staff in one hand and a plastic grocery bag in the other, hurrying along in the shadow of the buildings. There, a large stack of the seminal _Principles of Thaumaturgy_ in a book shop’s window. And there, the venerable Chantry of St. Cathaire, its gates wide open and guarded not by Templars, but mages in ceremonial robes.

She wondered if Anders would have been proud, or if he’d have despaired at the misery he had wrought.

“It’s so calm,” Bethany commented as they passed the chantry. “Not what I expected. The way Josephine described it in her briefing, it sounded as if order had all but broken down. Now it seems as if the Grand Enchanter is simply ignoring our messages.”

“We still need to find some way to talk to her,” Lavellan pointed out. “Then we’ll see if she’s got some sort of explanation for ignoring us.”

“Right. Let’s go to my school. In my experience, there’s no better place to pick up gossip than a teachers’ lounge.”

Redcliffe Comprehensive was located in a large, grey stone building just past the chantry. Vines covered its northern façade. To one side of the courtyard, the burnt-out ruins of a bike shed gave testimony to its students’ success. Lavellan chuckled at the sight. “The First of my clan used to do that when he was first coming into his powers,” she said. “We lost three aravels that year.”

“It happens. We don’t normally teach our youngest apprentices primal magic, but it’s hard to keep them from flinging fire around anyway. Every now and then, a shed catches fire. Cost of doing business, I suppose.”

The corridors of the school were deserted, as classes were still ongoing. Bethany tried to recall if it had ever been this quiet in her own time at school – perhaps it was merely nostalgia for lost Lothering, or perhaps it was the fact that most of the children now studying here had never known a school outside the Circle and were enthusiastic about learning. There was a lot to be said for a Circle education, and Bethany would be the first to admit that the rebellion had robbed a lot of apprentices of the training due to them, but there was nonetheless an undeniable difference between studying behind bars and under Templar supervision and doing so freely and returning home at the end of the day.

The staff room was located off the main corridor on the ground floor. Entering, Bethany registered a few teachers at their desks, marking papers or preparing lessons. She did not recognise most of them, but each and every one appeared to carry a staff. When she had taught here, there had still been a good number of non-mage teachers who had stayed behind in Redcliffe when the mages had taken over. Were they in classes?

Just as Bethany was about to comment on that circumstance to Lavellan, a familiar voice called out to her. “Master? Master Bethany, is that you?”

Could that be … before she could utter the name “Ella”, a young woman of dark, Antivan features had appeared out of nowhere and slung her arms around her. From the corner of her eyes, Bethany barely noticed an alarmed Lavellan reached inside her jacket.

“I can’t believe it! They said – they said you’d died at the Conclave. Sweet Maker, it is you, isn’t it?”

“Ella! What … what are you doing here? I thought you were still in the Free Marches.” Breaking the embrace to regard her old apprentice. She looked good, considering the circumstances – healthy, if somewhat leaner than she had been four years ago. She’d apparently acquired a sidecut hairstyle and an appreciation of purple lipstick in her time away from the Circle, and was carrying a plain retractable staff on her belt. “You look good,” she concluded. “I’m glad you got through alright after Kirkwall.”

For instant, a shadow flew over the girl’s face. “It wasn’t easy,” she admitted, nervously glancing at Lavellan, who slowly removed her hand from her sidearm. “For everyone who helped us, there were ten people who would just as soon have turned us over to the Templars. But – I suppose you’d know about that. I finally got here two months ago – apparently that was just after you’d left for the Conclave. When I mentioned I was a Force Mage, they gave me your old classes. But, tell me, master – what happened to you? And who’s your friend?”

Bethany blushed. “Right. Ella, this is my friend Ellana of Clan Lavellan. She – well, we – are with the Inquisition now. Ellana, meet Ella. She was my apprentice at the Kirkwall Circle of Magi.”

Her tongue felt a bit weird after all those Ls.

Easing up, Lavellan reached out her hand and smiled at the girl. “Good to meet you.”

“Uh, likewise. I’m sorry, I didn’t know there were Dalish in the Inquisition.”

“Just the one!” Grinning, the elf left it at that.

“Wow. Okay. So, er – is it true what they say about the Inquisition?”

Bethany raised an eyebrow, curious. “Why, what do they say about us?”

“Apart from the Tevinter conspiracy thing, she means.”

“ _Yeah._ Apart from that.”

“No one really believes that, not here, don’t worry about that. But people say that a woman survived the explosion. And that she can close rifts. Some people – it’s silly. Some people have been going around saying she’s sent by Andraste to cleanse us of our sins.”

Bethany and Lavellan shared a look. “Uh, yeah,” the elf eventually said. “Mark those rumours down as true.”

“Mostly. Anyway, the reason we’re here is to find out what’s the mood among the first enchanters. The Inquisition is trying to recruit mages, but we’ve been completely unable to establish communications with Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

Instead of a reply, Ella drew them out of the teacher’s lounge into the hallway, which was still deserted. “Alright,” she said there, “this is a bit out of my league. But it used to be that the Grand Enchanter and her council met publicly, and went around the city visiting people to see how things were going. They don’t do that anymore. Not since the Tevinters arrived.”

 “This is the first I’ve heard of any Tevinters. What would they be doing here? Are they mages?”

“They arrived last month and were immediately set up in the castle – there’s not a whole lot of them, fifteen or twenty, maybe. Scientists, mostly, but of course you never know with Tevinter. They come down to the town every once in a while, but they never talk about what they’re doing.”

“And you think whatever they’re doing is nefarious.”

“Yes. And it’s not just me, everyone thinks so too, even if they don’t say it out loud. There’s something going on at the castle, I’m sure of it.”

Bethany’s brow furrowed. It was too easy to ascribe these fears to simple xenophobia – while Tevinter was certainly no nation of saints, she did not see any reason for them to undermine the free mages’ work here. Surely Tevinter, a nation of mages, could not but benefit from a strong mage movement in the south? “They’re scientists? Do you know what sort of research they do?”

“I’m afraid not. But I do know that one of them is here right now to use the library on Chantry Road, so if you’d like to talk to him …” Ella trailed off.

“We should do that,” Lavellan pointed out. “The Nightingale will want to know what’s going on.”

“Agreed. Ella, would you recognise the man if you saw him?”

“Oh, no question there. It’s not a face you’d want to forget, that’s for certain. I’m afraid I’ve got classes to get to, but I’m sure the librarian will be able to point you to him.”

“Right.” Bethany briefly embraced her former student. “I’d like to stay and talk, but we have business. Shall we meet up later, for tea?”

“Sure. There’s some things I’d like to talk about. Do you have a phone? I couldn’t reach you after Kirkwall …”

They exchanged numbers. “One more thing. I’m not sure what’s going to happen here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Redcliffe got a lot less safe in the near future. If something happens – call me. Go to the Inquisition. They’ll help you. I promise.”

“Huh. Okay. Talk to you later?”

“Definitely.” They parted, Ella hurrying to her classroom as Bethany and Lavellan made their way out of the school building. All things considered, this had gone better than expected. Bethany had thought of Ella with some regularity after her flight from Kirkwall – in one of their last conversations, just after Ser Cullen had Smitten her at the hospital, the girl had confided in her about her desire to live outside the Circle. Bethany, raised as an apostate, had known it was never that easy, and only rarely worth it. She was glad Ella had found some measure of happiness despite the hardships she’d had to endure.

The library of Redcliffe’s old town was located just down the street from the school, in a recently-renovated building of rough stone and half-timber, with large skylights providing light to the reading gallery. Bethany had been there a few times before, though she had been largely disappointed by the library’s offering.

Ella’s prediction proved correct – the librarian on duty immediately knew who they were asking for. “He’s Tevinter, then? I thought he looked northern. Doesn’t exactly fit the stereotype though, does he? I think he’s upstairs, in the history section. Left off the stairs.”

The librarian left them wondering about what stereotype exactly she had meant. There was only one person in the history section of the library, a tall, dark gentleman mage who looked more like a painter or runway model than any sort of scientist. Unlike most Tevinter mages she had encountered in Kirkwall, he did not wear much black, a hood or any kind of spikes. In fact, his handsomeness was matched by a rather expensive-looking white linen suit, worn over a dark shirt with a turquoise tie and a silk shawl to match the suit, and a tastefully discrete staff at his waist. Clearly, ‘scientist’ had meant some sort of arts scholar.

“Shameful, isn’t it?,” he asked without looking up as Bethany and Lavellan approached his reading desk, a sarcastic tint in his voice. “You’d think they’d have at least one or two volumes on early Tevene history. There’s a copy of the _Mallefica Imperio_ , of course, but no one in the world takes Burckhardt’s propaganda seriously anymore. I should hope so, anyway.” Finally, he looked up at them with a brilliant smile. “Forgive my manners. Dr Dorian Pavus, of the University and Circle of Minrathous. How do you do.”

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Hawke, and this is Ms Lavellan – we’re from the Inquisition. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“Well, that doesn’t sound ominous at all. I imagine this is about the presence of me and my compatriots in Redcliffe, yes? That seems to be all that’s on everyone’s minds these days, though I had thought the Inquisition to be above such petty rumours. More’s the pity.”

The two women sat at the reading desk opposite Dr Pavus. “That’s part of it, yes. We’ve only arrived in the city today and no one seem to know all that much about what’s going on at the castle. I’ve been told you’re scientists?”

“People could just ask, you know. I’d be happy to direct you to our project’s website. It’s quite flashy.” The doctor shrugged. “Most of us are scientists, yes. Of course you’ve got a handful of research assistants and security guards, but for the most part we’re researchers – about two dozen in total, just over half of them mages.”

“So what exactly do you research, then?”

A faint look of annoyance appeared on Dr Pavus’ face. “One would think the rumour mill would have found out at least that much. _I_ certainly haven’t made a secret of our research. Simply put, we are investigating certain causal anomalies combined with perveline matter transpositions in multiple dimensions, which coincided with the sundering of the Veil at the Conclave.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you explained your research to everyone you asked?”

“No wonder they thought you were up to no good.”

Pavus scoffed, though his lips and his luxuriant moustache twitched with amusement. “In a town full of mages, one should be able to expect at least some basic knowledge of arcane physics.” He leaned forward. “Listen. Everything that happens, is caused by other things and causes other things – that’s Motte Wren’s Third Law of Motion; for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. Normally, you can trace matter and the forces exerted upon it via the Veil, which mirrors our physical world. With me so far?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Now, when your Conclave exploded, our time was running a series of experiments on such causal relationships in Minrathous. Everything was going as expected, until we suddenly discovered a handful of molecules in an experiment that had no business being there. We examined the Veil to see where it had come from and how it had affected our experiment, only to find out that it had not come from _anywhere._ ” Dramatic pause. “It was a tiny piece of matter from beyond the Veil.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. This man was, quite clearly, taking her for a fool. “Every apprentice knows that the Fade is incorporeal. There is no such thing as matter beyond the Veil.”

“Uh, what about spirits?,” Lavellan asked. “The ones that have been coming through to our side sure felt fleshy to me.”

“Because they were on our side. In their natural state, a spirit or demon is nothing more than … I’m not sure if there is a scientific term for it. They’re ideas, abstract philosophical concepts. Patterns of energy. Only when they come into our physical world do they attain corporeality.”

“Ms Hawke is quite correct. It had not, in fact, come _from_ the Fade, but had only passed _through_ the Veil. Parallel to it, so to speak.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Honestly? Neither do we. This is beyond everything we’ve ever seen.” Conspiratorially, Dr Pavus leaned across the desk. “We believe that the rules of magic are changing. That the Breach is doing – _something_ to the Veil. All of arcane physics might be obsolete now. Who knows what we can accomplish now?”

“That’s a sweeping claim. You wouldn’t happen to have any evidence to back it up, would you?”

Dr Pavus rolled his eyes with affected annoyance. “No, we came all the way to the arse-end of nowhere on a hunch. Ah, well, you’ve been listening so far – and you clearly know a thing or two about arcane physics. If you’re interested, I can show you around our labs at the castle. Maker knows we’re not making any progress, and an outside opinion can’t hurt.”

Bethany and Lavellan shared a look. Well, there was their way in. It went unspoken that the grand enchanter would have to shed light on what, exactly, was going on. “We’d be happy to,” Bethany told Dr Pavus. “If it isn’t any trouble.”

The physicist’s smile lit up with a peculiar glint. “None whatsoever, I assure you. Now, let’s be on our way, shall we? I’ve grown rather weary of this pitiful library.”

Confined within its walls as it was, old Redcliffe was small enough that the walk up to the Castle Bridge only took a few minutes, made all the shorter by the doctor’s charming company. His genial conversation rather reminded Bethany of Madame de la Ferre; the two physicists would certainly get along famously. Or maybe not, given de la Ferre’s expressed opinions on mage rights. De la Ferre was inspiring, no question there. The things she'd accomplished, most mages couldn't possibly dream off, and it was a relief to hear someone else express views that aligned with Bethany's rather than retreading Anders' vitriol. Still, she was ... not exactly easy to get along with, was she?

A checkpoint had been set up on the bridge leading to the castle, staffed by a bored-looking mage and a pair of contracted security guards. This was new. Dr Pavus got them through without any incident, but to Bethany, the very presence of the checkpoint seemed to bode ill. In her time at Redcliffe, the castle had been the seat of the community’s administration, and as unrestricted as any town hall in Ferelden. Most people had made the walk up to the castle regularly, whether to work in the administration or apply for new ration cards when one inevitably ran out of food stamps three weeks into the month. It did not seem like Grand Enchanter Fiona to restrict access to the castle.

Lavellan seemed to share the same reservations. “Heightened security,” she murmured to Bethany while Pavus was talking to the mage at the checkpoint, “Doesn’t look like much, but the guards are armed. Something’s going on up there.” The elf glanced at Pavus. “Do you think this is a wise idea, ma’am?”

Somewhat uneasily, she shrugged. “You got a better idea?”

“I wish. I’ll definitely hold on to my gun though.”

Pavus returned, handing them laminated visitor’s passes. This was new, too. “Sorry for the hassle. There’s been some minor incidents with the locals.”

“What sort of ‘incidents’?”

“Oh, nothing major. Vandalism, mainly. Graffiti, some thrown eggs.”

Without further elaboration, Dr Pavus bade them follow. Soon, they reached the castle – the courtyard was deserted, save for a small number of vans with the marking of a rental company on them, which Bethany suspected had been used by the Tevinter scientists to transport their equipment. The situation hardly changed after they entered the castle – the reception desk, once the ticket office of the Redcliffe Historical Museum, was not manned, and instead of the bustle of activity Bethany had found on her previous visits, the place seemed deserted.

The Tevinters had set up shop on the first floor of the museum wing. Between the tapestries and suits of armour lining the brightly-lit corridors, thick bundles of power cables snaked their way into the laboratories. Showcases full of artefacts of local history had been moved to the corridors to make space for workstations and lab equipment. “It’s a bit of a primitive set-up,” Dr Pavus explained, “but considering the state of the region, we weren’t able to find anyone to actually talk to at the University of Redcliffe. We’ve got remote access to the supercomputer in Minrathous, but that’s hardly an ideal solution. Still, we make do. Here, let me introduce you to our project lead.”

Dr Pavus knocked on a door marked ‘Lab 31’. A few words were exchanged in rapid Tevene, then they were let in. A pair of men in pristine lab coats were hunched over a trio of screens connected to some sort of lightly humming machine in the centre of the room, but turned to face them when they entered. “You’ve brought some visitors, I see?,” the older of them asked, stripping off his disposable gloves to shake their hands. His greying hair was shorn short, his features lean and sharp, but his smile was warm.

“Allow me to introduce my mentor, Magister Gereon Alexius, and his son, Felix. Gereon, Felix, meet Mses Hawke and Lavellan. They’re with the Inquisition.”

The magister seemed slightly taken aback at being introduced to a Dalish elf, but shook both of their hands without hesitation. Felix – the family resemblance now obvious – gave them a warm nod without stepping away from the workstation. “Welcome. I must admit, we weren’t expecting any visitors, let alone Inquisition officers. So you’ll have to forgive us for the mess around here. Tell me, what brings you here?”

Instead of a straight answer, Bethany said: “Dr Pavus told us about your research. It sounds fascinating. The way he explained it, it sounded like the laws of magic have been changing since the Breach.”

“Strange though it may sound, that is indeed what our data suggests. With the Veil thinner than ever, there is also far more background magic in the physical world – and that accounts for some of the things we’re seeing. Random bursts of magic, broken mana formulas, and even – we think – time travel.”

“Time travel!,” Bethany gasped, amusement mixing with disbelief. She had a strong feeling that she was being taken for a fool. "You're making fun of us."

“I know how it sounds. Still, that is what our results suggest. Felix, would you happen to have the video of the mice on that computer?”

“It should be in the cloud. Hold on a sec …” A few clicks and –

Alexius’ phone rang. The older mage gave an exasperated sigh as he picked up. “All the time, I swear … excuse me.” A few quick sentences in barked Tevene were exchanged, then Alexius made an apologetic grimace. “I do apologise, officers. There’s been yet another mishap with the equipment. Felix, Dorian, be so good as to show the Inquisition around?”

“Of course, pater.” Alexius left in a hurry, and Dr Pavus closed the door behind him.

“How much have we got?”

“Ten minutes, if we’re lucky. Depends on how much damage Marcus was able to do.”

Lavellan reached for her gun. “What’s going on here?”

“Whoa, careful with that! I’m sorry to startle you, but I’m afraid that was the only way we could talk in private.”

“What about? Why couldn’t Magister Alexius hear it?”

“You better answer that question right fucking now, Tevinter!”

Felix rose his hands in defence. “Listen. Let’s put all our cards on the table here, alright?”

Dr Pavus stepped to his side. “I wasn’t entirely honest with you, Ms Hawke. We’ve known you were in the city since you first stepped foot through the gate, and we know you’re the leader of the Inquisition – the mysterious ‘Herald of Andraste’”.

“Some call me that. But I am not the Inquisition’s leader.”

“Huh. Be that as it may, I imagine you came here to recruit Grand Enchanter Fiona for your Inquisition?”

Bethany and Lavellan shared a look. The two Tevinters did not seem especially trustworthy, but she didn’t think they meant them harm. “Put the gun away, Ellana,” Bethany told her companion. And yes, that’s why we’re here. Is there something you can tell us?”

“I’m afraid we don’t know where father is holding her, if that’s what you mean,” Felix said. “But he _has_ got her locked up somewhere and has put himself in charge of the city, that much is certain.”

“Knew it …,” Lavellan murmured under her breath.

Bethany had to admit, she had suspected something was amiss. It wasn’t like the Grand Enchanter to just disappear without a trace, and the arrival of the Tevinters was more than suspicious. “The magister’s your father,” she asked Felix. “Why would you tell on him?”

“For his own sake. My father is a good man, a gentle man, and a powerful mage and brilliant scientist, too. This isn’t like him. He’s – he’s joined some sort of cult. They call themselves the Venatori – some sort of ultranationalist resurgence bullshit, I don’t know the details. But ever since he hasn’t been the same. He needs our help.”

“True,” Dr Pavus confirmed. “I hardly recognise the man who taught me in him. Void, he didn’t even explain the point of this expedition to us until we arrived – and here’s the weirdest thing. We were planning on coming to Redcliffe for weeks _before_ the attack on the Conclave. We arrived two days after the Breach, in fact. There was literally no scientific reason for moving our team to Ferelden. Gereon simply couldn’t have known the Breach would be there.”

Well, that sounded ominous. This … cult seemed interesting. People were already suspecting Tevinter nationalists behind the attack on the Conclave, after all. Could Magister Alexius have been complicit in it? That would explain his apparent foreknowledge of the Breach. But surely not even Tevinter could benefit from tearing a massive hole in the Veil … It made Bethany’s head spin, truly. Years hunting Maleficars in the Kirkwall MCIS had done nothing to prepare her for this sort of thing. “You think your own father had something to do with this? With the Conclave, the Breach, all this chaos?”

“Well … not directly. But it’s too much of a coincidence. These … Venatori … are dangerous, believe me.”

“And this is why we need your help,” Dr Pavus concluded. “The Inquisition wants to find Grand Enchanter Fiona, and we need to get Gereon under control. I think we can help each other, Herald.”

She hesitated. “I’m … I’m going to have to run that past the board, I think. I can’t make that decision on my own.”

“We understand. Dorian and I think we can keep an eye on father and keep him from doing anything too questionable. In the meantime, we’ll try and figure out how to get to Grand Enchanter Fiona. Thankfully, we can assume she’s too important to just kill.”

“That’s grim.”

“Also true, hopefully. If the Venatori are behind the attack, Fiona’s life might depend on her usefulness as a mouthpiece. Is there some way we can contact you in case the situation changes?”

“Right. Here, I’ll give you my phone number.”

“Phone numbers, huh? Very cloak-and-dagger.”

“Hey, whatever works.”

“Fair enough. That should let us stay in contact. I don’t expect the Venatori can tap phones.”

“Now there’s a frightening thought. In any case, we’ll keep our eyes open and you get your people on our side, yes?”

Bethany smiled. “That’s the plan.”

“Marvellous. You see, Felix, at this rate we’ll be home by Satinalia.”

Somehow, each of them doubted that was likely to happen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that only took forever. I've been quite busy in Venice, though of course that's no excuse. Also, FO4. Daaamn. 
> 
> Some notes: 
> 
> 1) I'm not sure to what extent my description of Redcliffe is topical. While I've been very interested in the refugee crisis facing Europe and the Near East this year, this was not consciously an influence on my writing. Obviously, the experience of being a refugee is fairly universal, so applicability is there if you want it to be.
> 
> 2) Redcliffe is a 18th-century style fortified city -- a star fort writ large. Most European cities and towns worth mentioning used to have fortifications like that, which often could get quite elaborate. Unfortunately, maintenance costs, urban sprawl and changes in warfare made them obsolete, and very few still survive. Redcliffe is an exception, mainly because local government never got around to demolishing their fortifications until they were turned into a heritage site.
> 
> 3) Technobabble! Basically take my word for all the magitek stuff.


	6. No one else was in the room where it happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that only took forever! Done with my dissertation and long essays now, and will be hoping to get out the next chapter soon after exams. If you're new readers, welcome, you're amazing yadda yadda yadda glad you're here.

Like every morning, this one started with one cup of hand-roasted Qunari coffee. Rich, dark, heavy – black, no sugar. Over the years, it had become a ritual every bit as solemn as high mass. From the grinding of the coffee beans to the pouring of the drink, each part of the procedure now was a sacrament unto itself. Leliana had kept to this ritual for years – ever since a good friend had sent her a box of coffee beans from Par Vollen just after the Blight.  

It also let her get by on four hours of sleep a night, which was an added plus.

While she drank her coffee, Leliana went through her mailbox – that, too, was part of the ritual. Considering how easy she made it look, it was surprising how much paper work one accumulated as … ‘head of IT’ for the Inquisition. Of course, most of the regular mail was inconsequential. Reports from her ‘peripheral hardware’, analyses from her ‘server banks’, ‘fault reports’ from ‘debuggers’ and actual fault reports from people who couldn’t hear quotes. Maybe she should set up an actual IT team some time.

By the time she had finished skimming through her mails, Leliana had finished her coffee. She cleaned the cup, showered, washed her hair and picked out a hoodie for the day (“if (u.happy() && u.know(u.happy) && u.hands != NULL) {u.hands.clap();}”) and, after some deliberation, decided on a pair of cute shoes to match. Dressed, she gathered up her laptop, phones and the handful of files she’d pored over late into the night, and made her way to work.

Like most of the Inquisition’s key staff, she had been housed in the Guesthouse St. Margret, which offered large and comfortable, if rustic suites. As an added benefit, the staff were well-used to VIPs, and had adapted to Leliana’s stringent security regime without too much difficulty. Those staff members with less than watertight backgrounds or opinions had quickly been rooted out by her moles and reassigned, letting her sleep somewhat deeper than usual. Today, one of her agents was on duty at the reception desk, though neither of them made any sign of recognising the other. As it was still too early for the buffet in the guesthouse’s breakfast room, and none of the other residents had appeared yet, Leliana had them pack a freshly-baked pastry for her. Then, she went on her way.

The Inquisition’s command structure had long outgrown the chantry’s facilities. Cullen and his staff had moved into the local primary school, while Leliana’s team had taken over most of the police station. Between her hardware and her analysts, she’d soon have to expand, though. They kept their work as decentralised as possible. Even so, there was always more work to be done. When you had to filter useful intel from the reports of three hundred field agents, dozens of independent contacts, three satellite networks, news outlets large and small, and social media accounts across the breadth of the web, analyse the intel until it made sense, then condense it into a single-page daily bulletin she could hand to the rest of the board, the bottleneck was manpower.

At the police station, Leliana gave the constable on duty a polite nod in passing, then proceeded to the former duty rooms. She had herself scanned for contraband, then signed in using her keycard and fingerprint. The windows in the ground floor duty rooms had been reinforced and darkened, making for a rather submarine-ish lighting situation. A handful of screens, belonging by the agents on the night shift, bathed isolated groups of desk in an eerie blue light. “Good morning, everyone,” Leliana chirped at her stalwart band of caffeine knights, “How fares the world today?”

Some of them looked up at her, dark rings under their eyes. Maybe it was time for another shift rotation. “Morning, ma’am,” Albinozzi, one of the group leaders, greeted her, sounding tired. “We’ve got reports on thirteen new rifts, mostly in Orlais. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“There’s been a number of attacks on Seheron, the Breach Followers cult has split again, and Darkspawn have been sighted near Val Gamord,” Baker joined in.

Finally, Ladurie – “Also, we’ve finally got our hands on satellite imagery of Therinfal Redoubt as you asked. The report’s on your desk.”

“Good work. The day shift should be here in an hour, I want everyone’s status reports on my desk by then. Anyone else want coffee?”

Coffee made, she repaired to her office. Located on the first floor, Leliana was less worried about being observed, and had for this reason laid claim to a large corner office, flooded by bright daylight, with a view of the mountains and the Breach. A large map of Thedas had been hung on one wall, pins of various colours marking reported rifts and their current status. Despite the Herald’s efforts, their numbers showed no signs of diminishing. The map was essentially the only decoration in the room. Normally, maintaining any sort of order in her living spaces was anathema to her, but security concerns dictated that Leliana kept her office clean, and her desk pristine. Hence, the only thing adorning her desk was an old framed photo of the whole crew on the shores of Lake Calenhad, huddling around Eleanor for the picture. Somehow, they’d even managed to elicit a smile from Morrigan and some sort of facial cramp from Sten.  Good times.

As promised, the reports were neatly piled up in her inbox, hidden away in sealed brown manila folders marked _TRÈS SECRET INQUISITION_. Leliana booted her computer, then broke the first seal.

This was Baker’s report. Item one, three minor attacks on Seheron; two on Tevinter and one on Qunari targets. Fifteen dead, a few dozen wounded. So far, sources were divided on the attacker – with both sides blaming terrorists funded by the other. The analysis presented by Kingsley’s team suggested that at least two of the attacks had been executed by Fog Warriors, with the third unaccounted for. Interesting, Leliana thought, but of limited use. By now, Tevene and Qunari intelligence agencies would already have come to their own conclusions, and their governments would have decided on which truths to proclaim.

Item two, the Breach cultists. Leliana shook her head with thinly-veiled disgust. Almost immediately after the attack on the Conclave, a number of cults had popped up around Thedas – some of them close enough to Haven to warrant her _special_ attention. While most were harmless by cult standards, the Universal Chantry of the Followers of the Breach had been a thorn in their side for weeks now. Cullen’s people continually reported attempts by cultists to gain access to ground zero, and the red lyrium deposits surfaced there. Hopefully, the cult’s latest schism would curb their activities. If not, there were means at her disposal to end them, permanently. Something to bear in mind.

Item three, Darkspawn at Val Gamord. Now that one was concerning. As far as she knew, there had never been Darkspawn incursions in that area before outside a Blight, which meant a new tunnel. Considering the numbers they were seeing, Leliana doubted it was anything too serious, but if the Darkspawn were once again strong enough to venture above the surface, they’d have to take measures. The whole matter was compounded by the conspicuous silence of the Grey Wardens in recent weeks – another matter entirely, and a proverbial nut she’d almost lost her teeth on. She’d put it in her report, see what Cullen had to say about it.

So much for Baker’s team. Nothing world-shaking, but interesting nonetheless. She made a few notes on which areas to investigate further and allocated some additional resources.

The next file was Ladurie’s report on the situation on Therinfal Redoubt, which she had been looking forward to reading. When she opened the folder, a large monochrome satellite picture fell out. The markings in the corner identified it as having been taken by the Starkhaven Accord’s _Bellarmine_ network, a grouping of geostationary environmental observation satellites. The date was eight days ago, around 3pm. Even from the grainy black-and-white images it was obvious that Therinfal Redoubt was bustling with activity. The last time she’d been to the ancient Seeker castle, it had been all but abandoned – the new training facilities outside Val Chevin having taken over its functions – but the rogue templars appeared to have done some work to restore and even expand it. Simple barracks had been raised both in the castle’s outer bailey and, in neat rows, on the terrain surrounding it.

Leliana quickly did some numbers in her head. In its heyday in the Black Age, when it had been the Templar Order’s headquarters in Ferelden and at the forefront of the minor Exalted Marches against the Chasind and Avvar, the castle had probably housed a garrison of some 1,500 knights, squires and servants, more in wartime. Of course, that had been in an age before running water, central heating and other modern amenities. Now, with the new facilities in place, Leliana estimated there was space for up to three times that number.

What the satellite images did _not_ tell her was the purpose of the templars’ seclusion there. She found it hard to believe that the order’s leadership were leading their members through a period of quiet contemplation, devotion and ideological reorientation, as some observers had suggested. You did not build barracks around a medieval castle to enjoy the monastic lifestyle. The satellite images did not suggest the stockpiling of any sort of military equipment – beyond what one might expect in a templar armoury in peacetime – but she doubted nonetheless that it was that simple. There definitely was something that looked like a training area not far from the barracks.

It took her a moment to realise what she was missing. Thousands of templars gathered in one place required supplies – food, ammunition, _lyrium._ The latter could be ingested either as a potion or in its dust form, but in either case it had to be processed first. She had people monitoring the handful of supplying companies to make sure the Chantry’s embargo was being enforced, and from the satellite imagery the templars at Therinfal did not appear to have processing facilities sufficient for supplying a hundred men, let alone a thousand. So, where were they getting their lyrium from? Her agents were keeping an eye on all of the legitimate suppliers and producers, and most of the illegitimate trade, so …

She groaned. Oh, for fuck’s sake … Then, she reached for her phone.

 

Like every morning, this one started with him sitting up in his sweat-drenched bed, breathing heavily, as the last images of the nightmare du jour faded from his mind. For what seemed like minutes, he sat there, trying to focus. The first sunlight falling through the blinds tickled his nose. Damn it, he must be late for the morning muster – almost blindly, he reached for his phone to check the time, only to find it wasn’t in its accustomed place.

It took him a moment to remember that he was not in his quarters in Kirkwall, that it had been years since he’d served at the Gallows, and that he was no longer late for anything. Everyone else was simply early.

Exhaling deeply, Cullen sank back into his pillows. Every morning, the same old litany … At least, he told himself, he was spared the worst nightmares. He’d rather revisit Kirkwall’s slow descent into madness and chaos a thousand nights, than what had happened at Kinloch Hold but once. So he told himself, anyway. It was not entirely convincing.

Groaning, Cullen swung his feet out of bed, found his phone on the nightstand. _Half six._ So he _had_ overslept. Quickly, he showered and got dressed, the new uniform still feeling strange on his body. Compared to the deep crimson templar uniform he’d worn for years, the Inquisition’s uniform, still new and unwrinkled as it was, felt austere – the scarlet silk sash notwithstanding. Leliana’s design, not his – he’d put his foot down over her plans to include sashes in officer’s field uniforms.

He said his prayers, then made his way to the breakfast room. A couple of his officers were there, and for a moment he considered joining them. In the end, he decided against it – his presence would only make them feel as if they were on the clock.

Whilst Cullen ate his meagre breakfast of rye bread with apricot jam and a hardboiled egg, he had a look through the morning papers – more out of a sense of obligation than actual interest. Nothing in particular jumped out at him. The _Spectator_ lead with rumours of an impending backbencher rebellion against Prime Minister Guerrin’s emergency budget. According to the _Markham Express_ , the commissioner-general of the Starkhaven Accord was unlikely to awake from her coma after last week’s car accident. The _International Journal_ focused on recent developments in the Orlesian civil war. All very good to know, but not exactly groundshaking.

Once he was done eating, he made his way to base. Well, he said base: he’d commandeered the local primary school for his staff’s offices. As one of the largest building in Haven, it uniquely suited their needs, and the gym had been transformed into barracks for the garrison, fresh recruits and visiting Inquisition forces.

Apart from the duty officers, the main school building was fairly deserted. The only member of Cullen’s personal staff in evidence was Knight-Lieutenant Trevelyan, his freshly-appointed ADC, forever the diligent templar. Or workaholic, depending on how you looked at it. “Morning, ser,” Trevelyan greeted as Cullen entered the office, and moved to take his coat.

“Morning. Ah, thanks. How are we doing today?”

“Everything’s in order, ser. There was a minor incident during the night, but it’s been dealt with.”

Well, that sounded ominous. “What sort of incident?”

Visibly uneasy, Trevelyan shuffled his feet. “There was a bit of a scuffle at the Singing Maiden. A fracas, if you will. A templar was attacked by a couple of mages. No shots fired, but some minor injuries. We’ve taken the mages into custody.”

“What about the templar?”

Trevelyan hesitated. “I took her testimony and set her free,” he then said. “She was the victim in this matter. Was that a mistake?”

Not this again. Over the past few years, dormant tensions had burst into flame all over Thedas, fuelled by templar abuses and instigated by demagogues like the Anders Mage. They had not expected that having mages and templars working side by side again was going to be easy, but it appeared as if divisions between both groups ran even deeper than anticipated. Sighing, he put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “The Maker only knows. No matter what we do in these matters, there will always be people accusing us of bias. Just … try to be as fair as you can. For us, there must be no more templars and mages, just soldiers of the Inquisition.” Beckoning Trevelyan to follow, he made his way to his office.

“Understood, ser. I imagine it must be difficult for all of us to adjust. I mean … you served in Kirkwall, ser. The rumours we heard in Ostwick …”

Cullen could feel himself tensing up. “Give me my agenda for the day, knight-lieutenant.” That came out somewhat sharper than he had intended.

“Yes, ser.” Trevelyan reached for the tablet under his arm. “After the staff meeting at 8, the negotiator from Matador International Risk is here to see you. Then, at quarter past 10, you’ve got a meeting with Major Dennet about the delivery of the old _Nug_ APCs.”

“What, has there been another delay?” The vehicles had been due to be turned over to the Inquisition a month ago, and they were sorely needed by their forces in the more sparsely populated areas of Orlais. Though Cullen did not suspect Major Dennet of intentionally delaying the handover, this did not reflect well on the Royal Ferelden Army.

“I’m afraid so. The _Nugs_ are stuck in the Redcliffe Hinterlands so long as rebel forces are still in the area. I imagine they want our help to mop up the last remainders.”

“You’d think they’d be able to clean up in their own backyard.”

“They _did_ just hand over a significant part of their light to medium equipment over to us, ser. The Fereldans nearly crippled themselves to help us. Plus, they don’t have templars – or mages.”

“Whereas we have both, and might get more soon. Makes sense. Carry on, knight-lieutenant.”

“Right, ser. We’ve assigned two hours to the meeting with the major. After lunch, you wanted to fly down to Bexley AFB to inspect the troops there. That’s going to take up most of the evening.”

“I’m looking forward to see how Riley has been handling the situation. Maker knows we didn’t give him an easy task. Give him any more leash, and he’ll end up running logistics for all of our global operations.”

“Quite. I think Lieutenant Sigridsson has suggested that we see about acquiring another turntable somewhere in western Orlais or Nevarra. That’d take some of the pressure of Bexley.”

“That’s a matter for Lady Montilyet’s attention. If the situation at Bexley is as severe as Sigridsson seems to think, I’ll make sure to mention it to her. Is that everything?”

“Yes, ser.”

“A good day’s work, then. Has my intelligence bulletin arrived yet?”

“Not just yet. I imagine it’ll be here within the hour.”

“Leliana must have her hands full. What’s the time?”

“Five to eight, ser.”

“Thank you. I should head to my staff meeting, then. You’re dismissed.”

Trevelyan saluted and left. After weeks of working together, Cullen still wasn’t sure how to place the young man. Everything about his assignment as his ADC (courtesy of Josephine) reeked of politics. The second son of one of Ostwick’s most prominent families, close ties to the Templar Order and the Chantry … a clear  case of nepotism if he’d ever seen one. Then again, he _was_ fairly clever. Disorganised and hopeless with maps, but quick on his heels. And he’d been a volunteer of the first hour, literally. All of his comrades from back then – Lavellan, Adaar and Cadash – had been appointed ADCs to the Inquisition’s leadership. Cullen imagined that, from Josephine’s perspective, having a team of high-profile volunteers of such diverse backgrounds, races and creeds would be a PR opportunity too good to pass up on.

Even so – why appoint Trevelyan to him? He’d nodded off on the decision, of course, but ultimately it had been Josephine’s choice. Working with Trevelyan wasn’t exactly arduous, but he would have served better as an ambassador’s attaché or something like that. His own choice, he reasoned, would have been Adaar. A mage, to set a different sort of sign to the people under his command, and a diligent, uncomplicated worker to boot. Clearly, however, Josephine had had her own eyes on the Qunari.

Contemplating this, Cullen joined his staff in the meeting room – one of the smaller classrooms, once. Quincy was away on leave, visiting his family in Highever, but apart from that everyone was already waiting for him. Returning their greetings, Cullen took his seat at the head of the table. “Now then, what have you got for me?”

Almost immediately, Hoffreiter seized the opportunity. To his right, Hawthorne made a thinly-disguised show of his exasperation. “Ser,” the mage said, his cool and deliberate pronunciation tinted with just a hint of an Anders accent, “you may have been informed of an arrest made at the Singing Maiden last night, where two of mages had an altercation with a templar which regrettably led to violence. Even more regrettable is the double standard evident in your man’s treatment …”

“Oh, shut it, will you?” _That_ was Knight-Captain Juliette d’Evercy, formerly of the White Spire. “I think it’s quite clear that your people attacked ours. Knight-Serjeant MacCready was the victim here, and she was well within her rights to defend herself.”

“By _Smiting_ them? There are always two sides to an argument …”

Cullen sighed. “And if you don’t stop right there, there’s going to be three to this one. The matter has been dealt with by the officer on the scene. Whatever happened, the best we can do is make sure it doesn’t happen again. That goes to both of you – keep your people in line or I’ll be forced to segregate mages and templars in the camps. We need to work together, alright?”

“Ser.”

“I’ll pretend I heard a ‘yes’ before that. Do you have anything else for me?”

“There is the matter of the lyrium supply to consider.”

He’d known _that_ subject would have to come up again sooner or later. With mages and templars both in the Inquisition’s service, maintaining a steady supply of the substance had become imperative. By now, Josephine’s deals with suppliers in Orzammar had ensured a continuous flow of lyrium into their saferooms. The handling and distribution of their stores, however, still caused problems. He had a feeling that, at some point, he’d have to direct his personal attention to the matter.

Cullen wasn’t sure he’d manage that.

“Right. Ms Jones, you’re in charge of the lyrium. What’s new?”

“My people assure me they’ve triple-checked the hazmat suits’ seals. There shouldn’t be any more accidents, at least until another FNG fucks up on their first trip to the saferoom. I must repeat my request for dwarves or Tranquil to be assigned to handle the raw lyrium, ser. Alternatively, we could switch to buying it in processed form. And should, frankly.”

“That wouldn’t be practicable,” Hoffreiter pointed out. “Between mages, templars, enchantment and the experiments at the Breach, we’d need a supply of at least a dozen different lyrium products, in great quantities. It’s much more cost-efficient to buy it raw and refine it locally according to the Inquisition’s needs.”

“That would be the case if we had suitable facilities in place. The risks to our people’s safety …”

“… is something we’ll just have to deal with.” Cullen sighed. “We’ve discussed this, Ms Jones. We’re trying to get our hands on dwarven experts, but it’s going to take time. Once we have them, you’ll be the first to hear about it. In the meantime, I want you to make absolutely certain that people handling raw lyrium follow safety procedures. Understood?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good. Anything else about the lyrium?”

Ser Juliette raised her hand. “There is _still_ the matter of distribution to discuss.” Hoffreiter groaned. “Oh, don’t even pretend, Enchanter. I’ve had several complaints, _again_ , from templars who have not received their proper ration. Commander, you are a templar. You know how crucial it is that all of our brothers and sisters receive their rations in time.”

“The gall! The templars already receive far more than their allotted share. Just the other day I had a report on my desk from the southern Dales where a recon team was almost wiped out by demons because the mage assigned to them had not been supplied with lyrium pills and could not give proper fire support. Just admit it, commander, you’re afraid of what will happen if our mages have the resources they need.”

For a moment, there was a profound silence at the table. All eyes were on him. Contemplating, Cullen’s fingers drummed out a slow beat on the table. “Has the Inquisition given you cause to regret your oath of service, Mr Hoffreiter? Have you or your mages faced any abuses that were not dealt with to your satisfaction?”

“… no, ser.”

“And what about you, Ser Juliette? Have we given you cause to suspect mages are subject to preferential treatment?”

“Ser, the fact of the matter is …”

“The fact of the matter is that lyrium is in short supply all around. We are trying to buy up as much of this year’s production as we can, but the Inquisition’s means are limited. When distributing our limited stocks, high-risk assignments take top priority after Breach research. Anything else is secondary. If you find your templars don’t get enough, lower the dosage for the junior knights.”

“But ser …”

“No buts, ser knight. That is an order, and I expect you to follow it. Now, was there anything else?” Silence. “Very well. I’ll be at Bexley this afternoon, but I’ll be available on comms. Meeting dismissed.”

One by one, the officers gathered their documents and filed out of the meeting room. Cullen remained behind, massaging his temples against the oncoming headache. The longer this went on, the less peace there was between those two … he could scarcely imagine how things would go once they had three or four times that number of templars or mages under their command, as Josephine and Leliana were hoping. And the lyrium … that was a whole other beast. “Trevelyan,” he called out, raising his voice. The ADC stuck his head through the door. “Get me a glass of water. And two ibuprofens.”

“At once, commander.”

Trevelyan returned so quickly that Cullen had the strong suspicion he kept the tablets on his person these days. Maker knew he was on more painkillers these days than he’d ever been in his life. He’d taken two with breakfast, and his going rate the past few days had been … well, suffice it to say he wasn’t going to mention it at his next physical. “Thank you.” The ADC remained standing, watching him, as Cullen swallowed the pills with some water. “Next is … Major Dennet, correct?”

Trevelyan frowned. “Afraid not yet, ser. The representative from Matador is waiting for you, though. A Mr Cremisius Aclassi. Should I show him in?”

Ah, right. That was the one. “Make it so.”

A young man in a suit was lead into the room. Bit short, soft features – not exactly the stereotypical mercenary. Cullen rose to greet him. “Mr Aclassi, good morning. I am Commander Rutherford. Please, have a seat.”

“A pleasure. Thank you for meeting me.” As if to match his features, Aclassi’s voice was the kind of high tenor bordering on alto teenagers affected to sound older.

“You come highly recommended. I must admit, though, we were all a bit surprised to receive your mail. Normally, it’s employers that approach companies like yours.”

Aclassi gave a lop-sided smile. “We at Matador pride ourselves on our initiative. Besides, these aren’t normal circumstances, and the Inquisition isn’t a normal employer.”

“Fair enough. Now, why don’t you tell me about yourselves. What would Matador bring to the Inquisition?”

“Well, we’re a fairly small company – three platoons plus support staff. But we make up for that by being pretty damned _good_ … as our references will demonstrate. We can do everything from guard duty and escort services to covert ops and surgical incursions. We can also support your line of battle if need be – though that’s not our specialty.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “The Inquisition already has internal forces dedicated to black ops. Why would we need you, specifically?”

“I’ve seen some of your people’s work, commander. It’s solid, but nothing exceptional. Your people don’t have the same training, experience and equipment that we do. Fighting your way through a forest full of insurgents to secure a rift is one thing. But you just try setting your people on objectives that require more of them. Dragon-slaying? High-profile enemy target in a fortified compound? Harassing enemy supply lines? We can do it. Your office has received a resume of our engagements, I believe – Matador has fought in 23 conflicts in Thedas and the New World the last fifteen years, and always delivered flawless service. Are you familiar with Operation Imbroglio?”

He frowned, trying to remember. “Anti-pirate operation, wasn’t it? Back in 34, or 35. Antiva and the Accord joined forces to wipe out the pirates and smugglers out of Llomerryn. They captured the city as a staging ground, but then were forced to withdraw from Rivain after a bloody two-months guerrilla campaign.”

“Got it right. Except the guerrilla campaign was planned, organised and executed largely by Matador forces the Admiralty had hired to infiltrate the city. That’s a matter of public record, by the way, if you know where to look. Efficient, discrete and precise – that is the kind of service we provide, commander.”

Well, Cullen thought, the kid was confident. “You make a good sales pitch, Mr Aclassi. What sort of equipment do you bring with you, by the way?”

“Full range of personal and squad-support weaponry, to start with – mostly Anders weaponry, based around the S&C G35 weapons system. We’re fully motorised and use a couple of Kingfishers for aerial insertions.”

“That’s military hardware. Where’d you get your hand on those?”

Aclassi shrugged, grinning. “Let’s just say Kirkwall’s Vinmark Rangers could stand to keep an eye on their officers.”

Well, that was mildly depressing. When he’d left Kirkwall behind, the city state had been in turmoil even by its lofty standard. Between gangs and insurgents running rampant and bereft of two-thirds of its leadership, Kirkwall these days seemed to be pretty damn close to what people called a failed state. If you believed the papers, it was only a matter of time until the other member states of the Starkhaven Accord stepped in and occupied the city. “I see. It’s a solid set-up …”

“We also possess advanced crowd control systems.”

Now _that_ caught his attention. He’d come across that phrase a number of times as a templar – it was industry jargon for something rather more illicit. “You mean mages, right? Let’s not beat around the bush.”

“Er … yeah, that’s about it. We’ve one mage. She can cast all of the basic Primal spells and specialises in Entropy.”

“Circle-trained?”

“Dalish. She’s perfectly competent, I promise you.”

“Hmm. I’ll take your word for it. Now then, I think I quite like what I hear. I think you could be an asset to the Inquisition. How much would your services cost us? Can you give me a figure?”

Aclassi’s answer was prompt and precise. “Our baseline cost is 940 sovereigns a day per employee in combat situations, and 500 for lower-risk ops or downtime, plus a flat fee of 1230 sovereigns per diem in organisational costs. If we have to use the chopper, that’s another 200 sovereigns per klick.”

“That’s a bit pricy, isn’t it?”

“We are well worth the cost, ser. And you may still get a discount out of this – I’m not actually entitled to draw up a contract with you. First, my boss wants to meet you in person.”

“I take it that’s not your normal MO.”

“No, normally I’m in charge of dealing with clients. My boss is Qunari – he finds that puts a lot of potential clients off. Anyway, he’s currently finishing up on a contract with the Fereldan army on the Storm Coast. You could fly up there to meet him, if your schedule permits, otherwise he’d come to see you here in Haven in a week or so.”

“I see. Well, I’ll see what I can do. If I find an opening, I’ll be in touch. If not … Excuse me.” From inside the pockets of his uniform, his phone rang. One new message, from Leliana. _Cancel your plans for the day. Board meeting in my office at 9._ Well, that sounded fairly important. Cullen glanced at the time, ten to nine. “Damn. Sorry, I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this short. Something’s – TREVELYAN! – something’s come up. Trevelyan, make sure Mr Aclassi has everything he needs. When’s your flight back?”

“Not until the evening.”

“Good. Trevelyan can give you a tour of the town, if you like, introduce you to our operations. We’ll be in touch. Excuse me.” Grabbing his overcoat, he quickly shook Aclassi’s hand. Then, he was on his way. This better be important …

 

 

Like every morning, this one started – and then was put on pause, as she threw a sleepy-eyed glance at her alarm and went back to sleep.  

 _Like every morning_ , this one started early. She hit Snooze four times, until the time on her alarm’s display was preceded by an eight and there was no more excuse to continue sleeping. Still functionally brain-dead, Josephine crawled out of bed wrapped in a blanket and felt her way to the bathroom. Mechanically, she stepped under the shower. The next fifteen minutes were spent regularly turning up the heat and, slowly, waking up. By the end of it, she was sufficiently sapient to do her morning toilette, put on a dressing gown and quickly pop outside to fetch the breakfast that was waiting for her on a room service cart in the hallway.

She read the papers while she ate – an old habit from her days as a junior minister in the Antivan embassy to Nevarra City, back in the infancy of the Internet. Let’s see – Eamon was having some trouble getting Parliament in line. A bump in the road or the end of an era for his government? Either way, a threat to the Inquisition and her treasury. She made a note to lean on some of the more petulant backbenchers. News from Markham were worse – poor old Margret, it said, was unlikely ever to regain consciousness. For a moment, she paused to recall their last meeting, at the 9:41 Montequadro Conference. Even in these dark times, she’d maintained the stoic idealism that was becoming so rare even among the leadership of the Accord. They’d had more disagreements during that seminar than she could count, but she had come to greatly respect the woman. Her accident, that much was clear, was a blow to the Starkhaven Accord, its members, and to the world at large. Josephine made a mental note to phone her successor, and her family.

An espresso and cornetto later, Josephine almost felt ready to face the day. She got dressed – she point-blank refused to wear the new Inquisition uniforms for all but the most formal occasions; this was not going to be a military organisation if she could help it – and applied make-up. Then, she grabbed her phone and left her suite.

Her team had set up shop in the back rooms of Haven’s chantry, just across the street from the hotel. These days, it was hard to believe this had once been a tiny little village chantry – the new building, erected to serve the pilgrims after the rediscovery of the Sacred Ashes, was spacious, light and airy, all glass and polished hardwood. Though Leliana and Cullen’s divisions had found themselves forced to move into separate buildings, there was more than enough space for Josephine and her team.

When she walked in, Mother Giselle was just concluding morning mass. On a weekday like this, mass was a quiet affair, and with no audience in the chantry Josephine was happy to wait in respectful silence as Giselle finished, her voice strong and clear.

“… _sing with them the Chant, and all will know: we are Yours, and none shall stand before us._ ” A faint smile on her face, the mother bowed her head before the carved representation of Andraste that kept a watchful eye on the chantry’s nave. Then, she carefully closed the leather-bound Chant on the lectern. “Thus ends the lesson, that you may sing the Chant of Light to all the corners of the world. Go in the Maker’s light.”

Josephine bowed her head. “And may it always go with you.”

“Thank you for your patience, Lady Montilyet,” Giselle greeted her as she picked up the small silvered tabernacle containing oil for the holy fire. “How are you this morning?”

“Quite good, thanks. It’s a lovely day. You?”

“No complaints. Oh, while we are talking – I have received news from my friends in Val Royeaux. Adalbertha Mingelich has been elected grand cleric of Nordbotten.”

A grin flew across Josephine’s face. Mingelich was not only an outspoken supporter of the Inquisition, but also the candidate she had been pushing for the influential Anders see. “Good to hear. Thank you, mother.”

“The pleasure has been mine. Did you know Adalbertha and I studied together for a while? I shall have to ring her up to offer my congratulations. If you like, I can ask her to preach on our behalf.”

“Do you think it’ll help?”

“Every little bit helps, does it not? Adalbertha is a powerful preacher, and the Anders people will listen to her sermons. It could help to improve the Inquisition’s standing in the north.”

Josephine briefly pondered the issue, then nodded. “Make it so. I appreciate your help, mother.”

“And the world appreciates yours. Go in peace.”

“You, too.” As Giselle returned her attention to refuelling the sacred flame, Josephine hurried off towards her offices. She had long ago made it a point of principle not to check her mail in her downtime outside of crises, but that didn’t keep her from getting anxious every morning about what she might have missed during the night.

Today, however, she didn’t even get to her desk to check her mail. Corporal Adaar was waiting for her in the office, pacing a hole in the hardwood floor. “Ma’am!,” the qunari mage almost shouted as she entered, before regaining her composure. “We have been awaiting you, ma’am. You received a text message from Lady Nightingale almost an hour ago, on your office phone. It seems rather urgent.”

Well. _That_ was the downside of her policy, and good reason to be anxious. “Good morning to you too, Herah. Is my bulletin here yet?” Her office phone was a monstrous contraption Leliana had personally set up for her. The connection, her friend had assured her in a flurry of techy words, numbers and abbreviations, was as secure as what might sit on the desk of the arishok, archon or empress, but considerably more unwieldy than a normal mobile as well. Consequently, she had put it to rather more stationary uses, leaving it permanently plugged in on her desk.

Someday, she’d have to tell Leliana …

“Not yet, ma’am,” Adaar informed her as Josephine’s eyes flew over the message. “Lady Nightingale’s officers are uncustomarily late.”

“Well, that only makes this more important. Meeting at nine, what’s the time?”

“Six minutes past nine, ma’am. Pardon, it is seven now.”

“Oh, absolutely lovely. Right, anyone wants to talk to me, tell them I’m not available. Glower a bit if they don’t want to listen. Oh, and make a note in my schedule to call up … probably won’t have time, don’t bother. I should be off, shouldn’t I?”

Adaar’s response was terse. “Yes, ma’am.”

Well, that settled it. Someday, Josephine swore to herself as she hurried off as quickly as her heels would allow, she’d make it to an emergency meeting and not be the last to arrive.

 

 

Like every morning, the dawn’s light was reflected a myriad times in the otherworldly shine of the Breach. Under their feet, a thin layer of snow crunched with every step, becoming thinner and thinner as they approached ground zero.

“Shouldn’t we be wearing Hazmat suits for this?,” Cassandra asked their guide when the first spikes of red lyrium jagging from the ground came into sight.

“No need for that, dear” Vivienne replied. “So long as you don’t touch it, short-term exposure is no more harmful than sitting by a microwave oven. You’d have to spend hours around it to contract serious radiation poisoning. Oh, and try not to look directly into the breach.”

Bethany stifled a yawn. She hadn’t been sleeping well, lately, and her dreams were getting worse. “Why not? It’s not that bright, is it?”

“No, but the last time one of our researchers stared at it, he came down with nausea and dizziness for days. Staring directly into the Fade does strange things to the mind.”

“Indeed,” Solas concurred. “The human mind is not fashioned to comprehend what lies in the Beyond.”

Vivienne shot him a murderous glare. “But of course the elven mind is, is that it?”

The sole reply was a noncommittal smile.

“Um, could we maybe just proceed to the Breach without another argument? Please?” Cassandra grunted her approval, but Vivienne would not accept that just yet.

“ _I_ still have no idea why he is even here. As far as I can tell, Mr … Solas seems to have no formal training or education whatsoever. I have nothing but respect for his cultural traditions, but I don’t see how quaint mysticism and Bronze Age mythologies are supposed to help us.”

“Solas _is_ a mage of no small talent,” Bethany pointed out. “And a dreamer …” – “ _Alleged_ dreamer.” – “… as well. We need all the help we can get.”

Vivienne made no attempt to hide her disapproval, though the rest of the hike to ground zero proceeded more quietly, until they crested the edge of the crater. A ring of industrial floodlights, generators and research instruments had been set up around ground zero, between faintly glowing spikes of red lyrium, and a group of Inquisition soldiers and researchers in CBRT suits. Even though the checkpoint further down the mountain had radioed ahead, the soldiers insisted on IDing them. “Sorry for the hassle, ma’am” their commander told them, her voice distorted by her gas mask. “We’ve had a couple of incidents of Breach cultists trying to, er, breach the perimeter. Can’t be too careful.”

“Of course. Where can we find the new arcanist?”

The soldier made a vague gesture towards the crater. “I think that’s the dwarf with the yellow stripes on her shoulders. If you want, I can radio them to meet you here.”

“No need. A dwarf shouldn’t be hard to find.” Rubber gloves, safety goggles and respirators were parcelled out.  A soldier taped bright red visitor tags to their arms, then let them pass. Their group descended the temporary steel steps into the crater that had once been the holiest of holies of the temple. In the faint green glow of the Breach the depth of space seemed to be in constant flux, making it difficult to judge the crater’s size.

As expected, it only took them a few moments to spy a dwarf-sized protective suit among the researchers. It was squatting on the ground, examining some rocks, but rose when they approached. “There you are!,” it – she, judging by the voice and the face that was barely visible behind her visor – said. The dwarf reached out a gloved hand, then dropped it just as quickly. “I’ve probably got red lyrium dust all over me. Shouldn’t shake hands. We’re just in the process of – sorry, getting ahead of myself. I’m the new arcanist. Your arcanist. Dr Dagna Janarsdottir; I studied at Kinloch Hold and then at the University of Denerim. My doctoral thesis was on …”

Bethany held up her hands. “Slow down. You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t think you were the best. It’s good to have you on the team, Dr Janarsdottir.”

“Just Dagna, please. I’m technically casteless.”

“Dagna, then. May I introduce, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, and, uh, Solas. You already know Dr de la Ferre. I’m Bethany Hawke.”

“Great. Now, we’re currently looking into the mineralogical composition of the rubble. There’s never been a detailed study done on the geological foundations of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, so we don’t really have anything to compare our findings with, but we’re hoping to gain some insight into how exactly the original detonation happened.”

“It’s been months since the attack,” Cassandra pointed out. “It’s rained, and snowed, there’ve been demons roaming around ground zero – how can there be any evidence of the attack left?”

“It’s not what you think. The site is too exposed to do some sort of ballistic analysis on it, but my theory is that the mineralogical composition of the rubble can tell us a lot about the actual magic behind the explosion.”

Solas gave a slight nod. “That seems plausible. All magic sends ripples through the Veil, changing its weave and fabric. A spell or ritual as powerful as the one that created the weave would have left a strong mark on all its surroundings.”

“So what have you found so far?”

The dwarf shrugged. “Not a whole lot, to be honest …” And she launched into a lengthy speech Bethany couldn’t have followed if she wanted to. “And that’s pretty much all we have. Could’ve been a bomb. Could’ve been something else entirely. What we do know is that the Breach was definitely created by some sort of blood magic ritual, but not any kind I’ve heard of.  I can’t even imagine the power you’d need to tear the Veil like this. I’ve called in a few favours among colleagues to hear if they can find out anything – you wouldn’t believe the kind of reaction I got when I namedropped the Inquisition – but I don’t think it’s anything we’ve dealt with before.”

“So we’re right back where we started,” Bethany concluded with a sinking heart. She had suspected the investigation of ground zero might be too little, too late, but she’d still hoped for some sort of lead. Finding out who’d opened the Breach, and how, was key to closing it. “We don’t know anything.”

“Oh, I didn’t say that. Complex magic like that doesn’t just spring up out of nowhere, you know. The attackers got the idea from somewhere, sometime. My colleagues – well, their grad students – are still working their way through the Circle archives, but something as huge as this wouldn’t be as hard to find. So if you ask me, we’re dealing with the really old stuff here – and I mean pre-Circle magic.”

“Old means Tevinter or Qunari, in all likelihood,” Vivienne pointed out. “That does match the analysis of the Orlesian intelligence community.”

Bethany shook her head. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusion. What about elven magic? The Dalish traditions reach back millennia, and they’re not recorded in the Circle archives. What do you think, Solas?”

Instead of the elf, Vivienne replied. “Hardly. The Dalish have long been incapable of higher forms of magic. A nomadic lifestyle simply does not support the intensive study required for a ritual spell of such refinement. The ancient elves’ magical heritage has long atrophied in the Dalish clans.”

Solas scowled at the physicist, but nodded hesitantly. “For once, we are in agreement, Madame. No Dalish-trained mage could have torn the Veil like this.”

Bethany frowned. “I don’t know a lot of Dalish mages, but from what I’ve seen, they aren’t any less powerful than most Circle mages.”

“Raw power is not the issue, training and refinement is. In the days of Elvhenan, magic was studied at institutions not unlike today’s Circles, though they had a very different conception of the art in those days. Among the Dalish, however, there are scarcely enough mages to train a Keeper for each clan, let alone form an academy. Their magic is generally a means of survival to them, not an object of research.”

Bethany wasn’t sure if she agreed – she had known Dalish for whom magic was very much a research subject. But she didn’t press the point, preferring instead to turn to Dagna. “Thanks for your help. Keep looking for leads. If there’s anything you need, come talk to me and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Hey, I’m glad to do my part. You get out there and kick those demons’ arses, okay?”

They handed in their safety equipment and began the walk back down the mountain. Much of the road leading up to ground zero had been cleared of debris for the Inquisition’s traffic, but this far up there was no real way of removing the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes without causing a landslide.

“You don’t much like the Dalish, do you?,” Bethany asked Solas after a while.

“Does that surprise you?,” he replied with an artfully arched eyebrow and a faint smirk. She still wasn’t sure what to think of the elf, even after working together for more than a month. Even Leliana had been unable to find more than a sliver of intel on him before his sudden appearance in Highever a year ago. The spymaster had repeatedly expressed security concerns about Solas’ access in council, but the fact of the matter was that the elf had proven himself indispensable from the day he had joined the Inquisition.

“It’s just … I mean, most elves I know hold the Dalish in high regard. And you clearly care about your people’s history and culture. It just seems odd.”

“The Dalish do not hold a monopoly on elven culture, or our history. What little they actually remember, they have appropriated into meaningless, fossilised icons with no understanding of context or significance. If a citizen of Elvhenan walked among them today, he would be as a stranger in a foreign land.”

“Well … culture isn’t static. Just because it’s not exactly the same as it was two thousand years ago, does not mean it’s not part of your people’s heritage.”

“Perhaps a part best forgotten,” Solas exclaimed, suddenly forceful. “Enough of this,” he then said, more sedately. “We should focus on the present. Tell me, Herald, have you given any thought to … excuse me, I think that’s your phone.”

She must have gotten her signal back, Bethany realised, trying to find her ringing phone underneath the heavy winter coat she was wearing. The Breach played havoc with most phones’ reception in its proximity. She gave Solas an apologetic glance before picking up. “Hawke?”

 _“Finally,”_ Josephine’s voice replied. _“We’ve been trying to reach you for almost an hour. You can Cassandra are together, yes?”_

Bethany glanced at the Seeker at the head of their group, who appeared to be contributing to Vivienne’s conversation with the occasional grunt. “Yeah. Is everything alright? Did something happen?”

 _“It’s fine. Just make sure you get down here ASAP. Leliana called an emergency meeting of the council. She believes …”_ The diplomat stopped herself. _“I shouldn’t say anything on the phone. Just get down here, alright?”_

“We’re on our way back,” Bethany assured her, now pensive. “We’ll be there in 15 minutes … ish.”

_“Good. We might have an opportunity here.”_

 

The nature of the opportunity was revealed to her when she and Cassandra walked into the ‘war room’ in the chantry backrooms to find a satellite image of Therinfal Redoubt projected against the wall. “Sorry we’re late,” Bethany announced. The others were already present. “What’s going on?”

“We have an update on the templar situation,” Josephine answered. “Leliana thinks they might be using red lyrium to supplement their rations.”

And the day had been going so well. “But that’s insane. Why would they do something like that?”

Cullen grimaced at that. He was standing off to the side, Bethany had scarcely noticed him. “Because they’re desperate,” he explained without making eye contact with her. They still hadn’t had that talk that Varric kept insisting they have. “What happens to a templar that goes without lyrium for too long … it’s not pretty.”

“Neither is red lyrium. You saw what that pendant did to Commander Stannard. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s going to happen if you start ingesting the stuff.”

“Which makes it all the more urgent that we act quickly,” Leliana said, her voice raised. Under the spymaster’s hoodie (which Bethany didn’t get), her eyes were cold and hard. “It’s not as much of an in as I would have liked, but if we’re to have any hopes of getting the templars on our side, we need to approach them now before it’s too late.”

“Agreed,” Cassandra said. “I’ll get a team together. If we take the chopper, we can be there by noon.”

“Hang on a minute. We cannot simply show up on their doorstep and expect the Lord Seeker to drop his animosity to the Inquisition. We need an in.”

“Access to our lyrium stocks should do it, shouldn’t it?”

Cullen scoffed. “We barely have enough for our own people as it is. Orzammar keeps driving up the prices.”

“Still, if we offer Lord Seeker Lucius an alternative source of lyrium …”

Hesitantly, Bethany raised a hand. “Excuse me, but why are we assuming the Lord Seeker doesn’t know what red lyrium will do to his people?”

“What do you mean?”

She blushed. “Well … it’s just, Lord Seeker Lucius must know about what red lyrium did to Knight-Commander Stannard. He must have read Cassandra’s findings from the Kirkwall Inquiry, right?”

The Seeker frowned. “That’s right. I submitted my report to the Divine Commission for the Control of Magic when I returned to Val Royeaux, and personally presented copies to the Divine and Lord Seeker Lambert. If Lord Seeker Lucius did not read my report when it first came out, he must have done so upon succeeding to the head of our order.”

“I don’t see why the Lord Seeker would feed his templars red lyrium,” Josephine objected. “How could he possibly profit from that?”

“The Knight-Commander drew immense power from her pendant,” Cullen suggested. “She even seemed to cast some sort of magic. Lord Seeker Lucius might be trying to imbue his knights with the same power. With a thousand Merediths at his command, he’d be all but unstoppable.”

Cullen was right, Bethany knew. There was no question of it. The drawn-out running battle against Knight-Commander Stannard through the burning, demon-infested Gallows had been etched into the back of her mind, and remained a regular feature in her nightmares. Crawling through a seemingly endless smoke-filled ventilation ducts, unable to see farther than her own hand, bleeding both externally and internally – when they had eventually managed to kill Stannard, they had been struggling even to remain on their feet themselves. But all that was beside the point, she reminded herself. The best they could do was avoid it ever happening again. “It doesn’t matter whether Lucius knows what he’s doing to his men or not,” she said. “He needs to be stopped.”

“Agreed,” Cassandra said. “Josephine, do you think we can get the Fereldans to provide military support?”

Before the ambassador could reply, Leliana spoke up. “We do have another option.”

“I hope you’re not going to suggest letting the Lord Seeker make his templars into super-powered killing machines.”

The spymaster smirked, briefly. “As cool as that sounds, no. But we mustn’t lost track of our priorities here. Our first responsibility is to close the Breach, and for that, we need the mages. If we enter talks with the templars, we lost what little currency we still have with them. Might as well throw in the towel now.”

“The templars could help us seal the Breach just as much as the mages,” Cullen argued. “The difference is, if we don’t act soon, the templars at Therinfal Redoubt are going to go insane with power. We _need_ to act, no matter what the mages will think of us.”

“If the Inquisition is going to present a lasting solution to the mage question, we have to engage with the mages first. Siding with the templars and burning bridges makes us into agents of the status quo.”

Leliana nodded. “I’m with Josie on this. We can deal with the Therinfal situation in other ways. They’re getting their red lyrium from somewhere. Tracing their supply is going to be trivial for my people. We may not have much experience with red lyrium, but we’ve commissioned experiments on nugs to test if the usual lyrium-compatible poisons would still work …” There was an awkward silence, and the spymaster trailed off. “Is something wrong? Do I have something in my teeth?”

“I’m suddenly very concerned for Boulette and Schmooples’ safety.”

 “What, you only realised she’s a sociopath now? Just don’t eat or drink anything she gives you and you’ll be fine.”

Leliana cleared her throat. “ _If_ we can get this back on track, people …”

“Yes, let’s.” Cassandra looked away, shifted her weight. “I don’t like the idea of going around poisoning people. As far as those men and women are concerned, they’re only doing their duty. But if it prevents a horde of superpowered lunatics rampaging through southern Thedas, that might just be our only option.”

Cullen scoffed. “With all due respect, Seeker, you can’t seriously suggest murdering those templars over their commander’s folly?”

“That’s a last resort. First, I want to try talking to Lord Seeker Lucius. If he doesn’t want to, find someone at Therinfal who does. We need to do whatever we can to get the templars on our team.”

“And lose the mages in the process. We don’t even know if templar abilities will work on the Breach. I’m sorry for the templars at Therinfal, but we simply can’t risk it.”

“Oh, for Andraste’s sake, those templars need our help and they need it now. Redcliffe’s mages want to deal with the Imperium, fine, let them. Hell, we don’t even know if the Grand Enchanter is still alive until we hear back from that Dr Pavus figure …”

Bethany had remained quiet so far, watching the developing argument from the side of the room. Far too often, she had found her opinions not disregarded, but rather – and that was more frightening by far – heeded. Her mark, it appeared, oft gave her voice added weight. She’d long known _that_ was a recipe for disaster. It was only a matter of time until one of her proposals got people killed. Best to leave those things to people who actually had an idea of what they were doing. Besides … she’d always known that putting herself forward was a good way of getting herself killed.

Now, however, rising frustration broke through her resistances. How was it no one saw the obvious solution? “Excuse me,” she said, raising her hand. “But what’s keeping us from saving the templars _and_ allying with the mages?”

Josephine frowned. “Well … for starters, the mages and templars are at war with each other, and have been for a while now. Tensions are high. We’re already having difficulties getting them to just talk to us. If we try to put both sides on the same table, we lose them both.”

“They were talking just six weeks ago. If Divine Justinia had had just a couple more weeks, she might have gotten them to agree to an armistice, you all know that.”

“Six weeks is a long time in politics. And the last six weeks have been longer than most.”

Bethany shook her head. “I think we can do this. The main thing is getting both sides back to the negotiating table. If we send people to help the templars _and_ recruit the mages, at the same time, present them with a _fait accompli,_ we might just have a shot at reconciliation.”

Cullen took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know, Hawke. There’s a lot of bad blood out there, and they won’t appreciate us deceiving them. What do you think, Josephine?”

“I’m sorry, Herald, but there’s absolutely no way it’ll work like that. If there’s anything my years of diplomatic service have taught me, it’s that good faith is the foundation of all deals. Deceiving both groups to get them on our side will only end with us losing both of them.”

Leliana nodded. “I’m with Josie on this. It’s a nice idea, but I don’t see it working in practice. The intel just doesn’t support it.”

“But if we just …”

Cassandra broke her off. “Enough.” Then, she sighed. “We’re not going to decide anything now, that much is clear. And we’ve all got work to do, anyway. Let’s take some time to clear our heads and meet again at 1400, okay?”

There was tacit agreement from the others. One by one, Bethany watched as they filed out of the room. Cullen was the last to meet, and for a moment his eyes lingered upon her and it seemed as though he was going to speak. Then, he too left.

 _That’s it, then._ Just like that, they were going to sacrifice one side to get the other. Wasn’t the Inquisition supposed to restore order for _everyone_ , not pick sides …?

Frustrated, she walked out of the war room into the chantry’s nave. It was near noon, and with the sun in its zenith the lectern with the Chant of Light on it was bathed in a bright light shining through a skylight above it. The scent of incense was in the air, and the mountain sun played tricks with the elegantly simplistic stained glass windows depicting Andraste’s passion that lined the nave. Mother Giselle, or any of the other priestesses, were nowhere in sight.

With a sigh, Bethany sat in one of the pews. Her head resting in her hands, she looked up at the carved image of Andraste. _You’d know what to do, wouldn’t you?_ For that matter, so would Marian. Bethany had a feeling that their respective solutions were unlikely to coincide. There had got to be _something_ she could do …

 _Think, Bethany. What do you have, what do you want, and how can you use the former to get the latter?_ What she wanted was clear enough, to somehow get both mages and templars on the Inquisition’s side. No more deaths on her hands, even by inaction. All she had was her magic and her mark From her mark, she drew authority, but it wouldn’t be enough. What else did she have?

She looked up towards the apse. The woodcarver had elected to represent Andraste somewhat unusually: rather than staring past the blade of a raised sword, this statue saw the prophet returning it to its sheath. Her roughly-carved eyes were raised to the skies in delirious adoration. Bethany wondered why the artist had gone for the sheathed sword – Andraste had been a warrior. Her peace had been written in … _sword._

Sword, templar, Cullen. _Cullen_ had seemed supportive of her proposition at the meeting, hadn’t he? If she could get him on her side, maybe the others would follow. She rose to her feet and left the chantry, half-running. Where would he be at this time of day? Probably best to check the primary school first; if he wasn’t there, someone would be able to tell her where he’d gone.

With quick steps, she left the chantry and descended into the lower part of the village, where the school stood. It had been surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire, but she was ushered through the checkpoint at the gate without so much as having to show her ID. Having never actually been inside, Bethany was somewhat surprised at how _normal_ the interior of the building looked. The entrance opened onto a long, L-shaped hallway, lined with classrooms on the inside and windows on the outside. The latter were still decorated with colourful, translucent paper animals, and the walls on the classroom side were painted with the letters of the Common alphabet. Only a lone Inquisition officer walking down the hall with a small stack of files under her arm gave any evidence towards the building’s present purpose. “Excuse me,” Bethany asked her, “do you know where I can find Commander Rutherford’s office?”

“Up the stairs and it’s the first door on the left, ser. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.” Ascending the stairs, Bethany found that the PA’s desk outside Cullen’s office was unstaffed, so she went ahead and knocked on the door. There was a muffled shriek of sort, a brief rumbling sound, and then a voice said: “come in.”

She opened the door to find Knight-Lieutenant Trevelyan and her own aide, Ellana, looking somewhat flustered. The elf had a broad grin on her face, but Trevelyan’s complexion rather matched the sash around the waist of his dishevelled uniform as he adjusted his belt. “Lady Herald!,” he exclaimed, snapping to attention in front of Cullen’s desk. “We – we didn’t expect to see you here …”

“Hey, boss,” Ellana chirped.

“Hey. I was looking for Commander Rutherford,” Bethany said, worry furrowing her brow. What if Cullen had left the village on short notice? He did that a lot, these days, to visit far-flung outposts. “Is everything alright? You look a little flushed.” She wasn’t exactly sure what they were doing in Cullen’s office, or why his desk looked like a battlefield, but she suspected Cullen wasn’t too keen on officers walking into his office in his absence.

Trevelyan shot a silent cry for help towards the elf, whose grin was not perturbed by it in the slightest. “We, uh. Uh. Uh.”

“Don’t mind him, Shemmy’s just a little out of breath.”

“Yeah,” Trevelyan quickly said, grateful for the save. “Because, uh, drills, and stuff.”

“All that drilling _really_ tires you out, you know …”

Bethany had a feeling she was missing a bit of context there, but she didn’t really have the time. “Right. Anyway, I was just looking for the commander. Do either of you know where I can find him?”

“He, uh, he went down to Cathaire Camp to inspect the troops, I believe. Ser. Should I leave a message for him?”

“Thanks, that won’t be necessary. I’ll find him myself. Excuse me.” Having no time to lose, she quickly left the school.

Cathaire Camp was one of four encampments of varying sizes and purposes that had been thrown up around the village. Located halfway between Ambrosia and Denerim Camps, and just a few hundred metres from Beatrix Camp, it was mostly used to train fresh recruits from Ferelden and parts of Western Orlais – though Bethany wasn’t sure what they could possibly learn within two weeks that would save their lives out in the field. Still, she supposed, the situation might be even worse without the training Beatrix Camp provided. At least now they had support from the actual military. By the time Bethany got around to closing most of the high-priority rifts, the military had already cordoned them off.

Arriving at the camp, she had herself checked in by the gate guard and was pointed towards the shooting range. On her approach, she had heard occasional gunfire, echoing against the mountains surrounding them, but had thought nothing of it. One always heard gunfire, these days. As she approached the shooting range through the indistinguishable rows of white tents, the intervals seemed to be getting longer, until they eventually stopped altogether. She stepped out onto the range to find a platoon of recruits, still looking awkward in their fatigues, rifles slung across their backs, gathered around Cullen.

“… doesn’t matter if you hit your mark so long as you can keep firing, but it does. Every shot that you miss is a moment you hand to the enemy to close with you, or a round wasted. Most of you still can’t consistently hit the mark at a hundred metres, none of you has made two. You’ve got a week left before you’re rotated back to … are you paying attention, Ms Redburn? This is literally a matter of life and death, I’ll remind you!”

Bethany stood at a distance to the group, listening. It was a bit odd, she’d never thought of Cullen as a fellow teacher – the training he had accorded both her and his subordinate knights in the Kirkwall MCIS had mostly consisted of the occasional pointer, trusting them to do their own thing. Clearly, it appeared, he’d missed his calling. Eventually, she caught Cullen’s eye. He flinched, then dismissed his recruits and turned to face her.

“Herald,” he greeted her, not meeting her eyes. She’d almost grown used to that. “What brings you here?”

“Hey yourself. Do you have a minute to talk?”

Cullen glanced at the recruits, visibly regretting his decision to send them away. “Sure. I’ve got time. What can I do for you?”

She gave him a faint smile, leaning against the railing surrounding the shooting range. “We, uh, haven’t really had a chance to talk. Privately, I mean.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawned on his face. “Of … of course. We’ve all been busy. It’s … been a busy few months.”

“Right. So … how’s your family?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your family. I know you have one. You introduced me, remember?”

“Oh. Right, yeah. They’re fine, all of them, thanks. They got out of Kirkwall alright before it got really bad – they’ve moved back to Denerim now.”

Bethany smiled. She’d only met the Rutherfords briefly, and their meeting had been cut short by a running battle against a blood mage at the hospital, but she was relieved nonetheless. “I’m glad to hear that. There’s been far too much suffering already. What about your nephew? What name did they end up giving him?”

“Which … oh, you mean Stanton. Mia’s kid. He’s four now. He’s got a little cousin, too, I’m told, my brother’s son – Willem.”

“You haven’t seen him?”

He shifted. There was something he wanted to say, Bethany suspected, but couldn’t. “I’ve been busy,” Cullen lamely finished. Then, quickly, “What about you? Did your … is your family alright?”

At that, her heart sank. That was a question she’d been hoping to avoid – mostly so she could avoid thinking about it. “My mother died last Harvestmere,” she eventually admitted, her voice carefully controlled. “Varric told me. Undiagnosed breast cancer.” Varric had told her, she thought bitterly. She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t even known. The only family Leandra Amell had had by her deathbed had been Gamlen and Charade.

Cullen’s eyes widened in shock and his jaw dropped open. Then he caught himself. “Oh, Maker …,” he murmured. “Maker, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

Bethany made a sound that was probably somewhere halfway between a scoff and a chuckle. “Neither did I.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen repeated. “Truly. When … when did you learn?”

“About a week after the attack on the Conclave. Varric took me aside and … told me.” She smiled, faintly. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. Talk about it. I think Varric might be worried. I keep thinking that she might still be alive if she hadn’t been exposed to my and father’s magic all those years. That I should have been there for her.”

Cullen sat next to her on the railing. “I don’t know if this will help,” he said, “but there’s never been any evidence of radiation from normal use of magic increasing cancer risks. Your magic had nothing to do with this.”

“I’d like to believe that.” Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself. “Anyway, there’s nothing to be done now. We just keep on living as best we can, right? ‘For the Maker / shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword’.”

“I hope you’ll find comfort in the Chant, then. Listen, I … I know we’ve never been friends, but if you need to talk …”

“Thank you, Cullen. I appreciate it.” She smiled. “Besides, we’ve never really had a chance to be friends before. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to give it a try.”

For an instant, he looked surprised, then he gave a firm nod, a dead serious expression on his face. “I’d be honoured.” Blushing a little, he averted his gaze. “A…anyway, what about the rest of your family? Your friends? Have you been in touch with any of them?”

No, she hadn’t. “Well … there’s Varric.”

“No one else?”

“Well … we kind of left Kirkwall in a hurry, and then we started splitting up for safety.” That wasn’t the whole truth, of course, but Cullen didn’t have to know everything. Maker knew she wasn’t in any mood to talk about it. “We’ve not been in contact since. It’d be dangerous to all of us.”

She wasn’t sure what Cullen made of that – he _had_ seen them, she was convinced, after he’d saved her life at that warehouse, moments before everything had come crashing down. There weren’t a whole lot of possible conclusion he could have drawn from what had happened before his very eyes. Or was it Anders he was worried about? That was a whole different matter, of course. Personally, Bethany would be very glad never to see his face again, but she suspected many of the Inquisition’s members felt rather differently about her one-time friend. “You know,” Cullen said after a bit, “when I was knight-commander of Kirkwall, after the battle, I worked pretty closely with Commander Vallen. I know you were friends, I could put you in touch …”

She broke him off. It would be nice, she had to admit, to talk to Aveline again. She’d been there since the beginning, and she always, always seemed to know what was going on, what was wrong about it, and how to go about fixing it. For a while, just after Carver’s death, the older woman had been more of a sister to her than Marian had ever been. They’d helped each other through their grief, and Aveline had taught her how to defend herself without using magic. To talk to her again – but Bethany realised that was not an option. “Varric already offered, but thanks. She’s got her own problems to deal with in Kirkwall. I don’t want to worry her.” Or explain to her how she’d ended up all alone in Redcliffe. She forced a smile. “I’ll see about getting in touch once I’ve got some time to settle down,” she lied. “It’s been … a busy few weeks.”

“Mmhm.”

Quickly, she changed the subject. “Anyway, what I wanted to talk to you about. I know I didn’t make my point very well in council earlier, and I’ll admit there’s some kinks that need to be ironed out. But I really think that we can get both the mages and templars on our team if we’re smart about it.”

The commander looked more than doubtful. “Leliana and Josephine don’t agree,” he pointed out. “And they do make some good points.”

“Yes, but I think they underestimate the severity of the situation the mages and templars are in.” She jumped to her feet, started pacing. “When I was living in Redcliffe, they cut our rations almost monthly. I can’t imagine that the Breach helped the mages supply themselves. That was probably the main reason the mages went to the Conclave in the first place, and I can’t imagine the templars are doing much better these days. Do you see? Both sides are desperate. They _need_ allies.”

“They’re fanatics,” Cullen pointed out. “Mages and templars have been killing each other for years now, and with every martyr they get more rabid. What makes you think they’ll work together?”

Bethany grinned. “Three reasons. One, they’re desperate, and only the Inquisition can help them. Two, they were already talking until two months ago. And three, we’re not going to tell them until it’s too late for them to change their mind.”

“That doesn’t sound very honest.”

She shrugged. “It isn’t. But there are lives at stake here, Cullen. We need to save as many as we can – no matter what it takes.”

The commander was still doubtful, she could tell. She couldn’t blame him, even she had to admit it was a pretty bold idea. It would be hard to pull off – but they had to try, didn’t they? Even so, Cullen seemed to be coming around. “We still don’t have an actual in with the Redcliffe mages. How are you going to approach them?”

“Like we have an in with the templars either? I’m not saying it will be easy. We’ll have to improvise. But if you go to Therinfal and I go to Redcliffe, I’m sure we can get them on our side. Dr Pavus is on our side, he’ll help me.”

“And there should be people I know at Therinfal.”

“Right. We can do this, Cullen. I _know_ we can.”

“You know, when you say it like that I almost believe it.” The commander chuckled, looked up at the Breach. Internally, Bethany was cheering. She had him. “Alright then, let’s try this. But …” His smile fell. “It’s still two against three. We need to get one of the others on our side.”

Bethany had already considered that. “Leave that to me. I know you’ve got stuff to do.”

“Are you sure? I could probably spare a couple of minutes to talk to Cassandra.”

“I’ll get it done. And … thanks. I’m glad we’re okay.” She reached out her hand, and Cullen shook it.

“Me too. We made a good team.”

“We still do. Right, got to run. See you later!” She turned to leave, feeling Cullen’s eyes on her back for a moment or two before he returned to whatever problem had to be shouted at.

Leaving Beatrix Camp, her thoughts returned to the plan she’d said she had. It wasn’t a plan, exactly. Not as such. Not yet, anyway. But in her mind, it already qualified for a planlet, a little sprout that needed only a bit of water and sunlight to blossom and fill the air with – hang on, that metaphor was getting away from her. Better to focus. Josephine and Leliana were right out, they’d made their opposition to her plan abundantly clear at the council meeting. That left Cassandra. She hadn’t been entirely opposed, had she?

Bethany had no idea where Cassandra would be at this time of day, if not at the shooting range. She ended up looking at the Chantry, the school and a number of cafés and pubs until she decided to check the guesthouse. To her relief, the receptionist informed her that Cassandra had checked back in an hour ago and was still upstairs in her suite. She had the receptionist give her the Seeker’s room number and a minute later she was knocking on Cassandra’s door.

“Cassandra?,” she called. “It’s Bethany. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

There was a stifled shriek, the sound of rustling paper. Something was thrown over. Then, a flushed Cassandra unlocked the door. “Of course,” the Seeker said, trying very hard to sound dignified. “Come in.”

Somewhat confused, Bethany entered. Unlike her own suite at the guesthouse, the Seeker’s room was fairly spartan, with little sign of habitation other than the rumpled bed and, uh, broken lampshade on the floor. A book was poking out from under the duvet. “… what are you doing?,” she asked, not sure if she really wanted to know.

“Uh, nothing. I fell. I mean, I was doing stretching … how can I help you?”

Trying to clear _that_ suspicion from her mind before it went somewhere uncomfortable, Bethany returned her attention to the matter at hand. “Uh, right. Listen, Cassandra, about this morning … I need to talk to you about the mages and templars thing.”

She frowned. “Why come to me? You already made your point this morning.”

“And I’m making it again. Listen, Cassandra, I know Leliana and Josephine don’t agree. But there is a way to save both mages and templars. I know it.”

The Seeker sighed and crossed her arms. “You’re right, the Inquisition shouldn’t take a side in this. Believe me, I wish there was a way we could save them both. Josephine and Leliana are right, though. It would simply not work.”

“Listen, mages and templars are both desperate. If we approach them at the same time …”

“… we’d have a riot on our hands the moment they met. I’m sorry, Herald. But unless you can offer up some new intel, I don’t believe it’s feasible.”

“Lives are at stake, Cassandra. We have to try.”

“And more will die if we mess this up. I’m sorry, but this is my final answer.”

Bethany bit her lip. She had not expected to be stonewalled like this. “Divine Justinia tried to make peace between mages and templars. She nearly succeeded at it, too. She wouldn’t want us to give up now.”

Cassandra’s lips thinned, and she stepped over to the window. Bethany froze. Had she gone too far? “Justinia also was a realist. You’re not wrong about her being a peacemaker, but people often don’t realise that she played the long game. She’d often spend hours awake at night, turning an idea over in her head until she had examined all the possible consequences. Do you have any idea how long it took her to even get both sides to the negotiating table, let alone make a peace treaty a possibility?”

The Seeker turned around to face Bethany. “You know, I asked her once why she change all the things she wanted to change when she became Divine – open the priesthood to elves, reorganise the Circles, the whole reformist catalogue. And she told me that ‘politics is the art of the possible’.” She stepped forward, put a hand on Bethany’s shoulder. “The _possible._ Not always the ideal. It’s not an easy lesson to learn.” The Seeker sighed. “I’m sorry we can’t save everyone. But we can’t, not without risking hundreds more. We have to do what we can, cut our losses and move on.”

Bethany averted her eyes. “I see,” she murmured. Clearly, her pleas fell on deaf ears here. “I take it there’s no chance of you reconsidering?”

The Seeker shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“I see. I guess I’ll see you in council later, then.”

“Hawke …”

“It’s alright. Thank you for your time.” Before Cassandra had a chance to reply, Bethany left the room. Well, this hadn’t gone as planned. She had been counting on the Seeker’s support. Now, it was her and Cullen against the rest of the council – and that meant they’d already lost.

Slowly, she made her way down to the guesthouse’s lobby. She’d have to inform Cullen – now they were back at square one and would have to choose between the mages and the templars, sacrificing the other. The commander had already indicated he’d go for the templars, as had Cassandra, which left Josephine and probably Leliana for the mages. She’d cast the deciding vote, then.

Maker’s breath, she was not looking forward to that. Lives were at stake, even Cassandra admitted that. What right did she have to decide who lived and who died? What right did _they_ have?

She knew she’d have to make a decision on this, but somehow she already knew she had no choice but to pick the mages. Huge surprise there, despite all her attempts to look at the situation objectively. But no matter how much she tried, she could never quite shake Ella’s face from her mind, forget that she had promised her the Inquisition’s support when they’d met in Redcliffe more than a month ago. Impartiality was hard when you knew people on one side.

But still, all those people at Therinfal – she’d seen what had happened to Knight-Commander Stannard when they’d cornered her in the Gallows courtyard. _No one_ deserved to die like that. The mages, meanwhile, could hardly be said to be in acute danger in Redcliffe. How could she live with the knowledge that she’d allowed thousands, maybe more, to succumb to red lyrium, all because she’d let personal feelings get in the way?

Frustrated, she stepped out of the lobby and reached for her phone to text Cullen. A couple of new messages from Varric, who was the type to send friends unsolicited funny news articles and pictures, and one from Leliana. _Need to talk to you, meet me in my office_. Nothing else, not even a please. Still, it sounded urgent, so Bethany buried her worries at the back of her mind and headed over to the police station, just a short bit down Haven’s high street from the guesthouse.

Security was tight, even compared to the military camps down in the valley, but the guards were expecting her and speedily passed her through controls before escorting her up to Leliana’s office on the first floor. She had to take care not to stumble over the large thickets of cables criss-crossing through the offices, which she could scarcely see in the dim light.

Leliana’s office, by contrast, was bright and open, whilst if anything being even messier than the rest of the offices. More than a handful dirty mugs lined Leliana’s desk and parts of the floor, and there were even empty pizza boxes in evidence. The Nightingale was seated behind it, her feet up and a notebook in her lap. She’d changed her clothes since the morning meeting, and was now wearing a grey hoodie reading ‘I frakked a toaster and I liked it’ above an image of a smiling cartoon toaster waving a tiny rainbow flag. Bethany didn’t quite get it. Leliana smiled when she entered. “Ah, Bethany. Thank you for coming so quickly. Please, sit.”

She found herself an empty chair to sit on and Leliana put aside the laptop and set down her feet on the ground. “I’ll make this quick. I need you to sign this letter.” She handed her a sheet of paper and a pen.

“Alright,” Bethany slowly said. This was odd. “What is it?” She skimmed the opening lines. _Dear Mistress Avery, it is my sad duty to inform you that your son, Lance Serjeant Frederick Joenor Avery, was killed in the line of duty this morning …_ Oh, Maker.

“Death notification. It needs a signature from a council member, and I’d like to keep my name off the record.”

“I’m sorry. Was he one of your men? How did he die?”

To her surprise, Leliana gave a thin-lipped smile. “Avery was discovered to be passing sensitive information about our operations in the Eastern Dales to a Chalonais rebel commander. We apprehended him last night and he was found to have committed suicide in his cell at 0630 hours.”

“Suicide?,” Bethany echoed.

The Nightingale’s smile seemed to deepen, she did not break eye contact. “He hung himself with his belt. The autopsy report will confirm that.”

Somehow, she was sure it would. A shiver ran down her spine. “Why … do you want me to sign it?”

“Because no matter what Avery did, his family deserves some closure. I can’t give them that. You can.” Leliana leaned forward. “Besides,” she said, a faint smile playing around her lips, “I’d owe you one.”

Bethany looked up from the letter. What was that supposed to mean? Leliana, reading her expression, added: “Sorry your meeting with Cassandra didn’t go as planned.”

“… how in the Void do you know about that?” The Nightingale’s answer was a non-committal smile. Bethany looked back down at the letter. It was curt and impersonal. “I don’t get it,” she finally said. “All you want me to do is sign a letter. And for that, you’re offering …”

“A favour,” Leliana smoothly interrupted. “For a favour. Nothing more, nothing less.”

That could mean anything, Bethany realised. If Leliana was suggesting, as she thought she was, that she’d vote with her over the mage  / templars issue, that was a distinctly uneven bargain for her – especially considering how vocal Leliana had been in arguing that her proposal wouldn’t work. Or was it? She glanced back at the letter. It didn’t look in any way unusual. Could it be that Leliana was looking for a way to vote for her proposal without losing face? She didn’t think the other woman was that petty. Presumably, she was expecting to use the letter in some other way. But how? Bethany had no idea, and it was clear that Leliana was expecting an answer.

Which meant she’d just have to trust her – Maker knew that wasn’t an easy proposition at the best of times.

In the end, it all came down to one question: was she willing to cover for Leliana having a possibly innocent man murdered in his cell, if that meant she’d get a – possible – shot at saving both mages and templars and finally end this blighted war?

Bethany reached for the pen, and Leliana’s smile widened.

 

 

They met back at the Chantry at 1800 hours. Cullen gave her a nod as she entered the war room, Leliana gave the impression of being wholly consumed by her work. “Right then,” Josephine said once everyone had arrived. “I hope we’ve all had a bit of time to make up our minds. We need to come to a decision tonight.”

“ _Fugit inreparabile tempus_ ,” Leliana murmured in Tevene, not looking up from her notebook.

“Agreed,” Cassandra said, ignoring the Nightingale. She stood at the head of the table, her hand resting on the pommel of her uniform dagger. “Let’s get this over with. I move that we send a delegation to the templars encamped at Therinfal within the week.”

Bethany glanced at Cullen. She had not actually found the time to inform him of her failure to convince Cassandra, and he gave her an alarmed look. _Hang in there_ , she tried to tell him through a look, before her eyes moved to Leliana. She was still looking at her screen, and made no impression of even listening. Would she renege on their deal? She had to chance it. “In that case, before we vote on that, I have a motion of my own.” Cassandra raised an eyebrow, and she took a deep breath. “I move that we send delegations to both Therinfal and Redcliffe within the week, and negotiate a settlement with both templars and mages.”

“Herald, we’ve talked about this …”

“You’re right, we have. I think we’ve all done enough talking for one day. I suggest we put it to a vote.”

Josephine and Cassandra exchanged a look. “… very well,” the Antivan eventually said with a sigh. “All in favour of the Herald’s motion, say ‘aye’.”

Bethany said “aye.” So did Cullen, after some hesitation. There was a lengthy pause. Nothing else followed, and with every second that passed Bethany could feel herself shrinking. She stared at Leliana. The Nightingale’s face was inscrutable behind a mask of mild boredom. This was what she’d signed Avery’s life away for?

“Well, looks like the ‘nays’ have it,” Josephine concluded and leaned forward to make a note on her minutes. “Moving on …”

Leliana looked up from her notebook, grinning like a cat. “Actually,” she said, “I vote ‘aye.’”

 

 

After that, the meeting dissolved into a disorder. There was a good bit of shouting involved, as people tried to figure out why Leliana had voted the way she did, not at all helped by her refusal to explain her reasoning. Josephine and Cassandra continued to be adamant that Bethany’s proposal would be disastrous. Eventually, however, things calmed down sufficiently for everyone to agree that a decision had been made, whether they liked it or not, and that they’d hammer out the details in the morning. Slowly, the meeting dissolved, though there were still glares and murmurings all around.

Bethany and Leliana stayed behind to gather their things. “Thanks,” she eventually said, “For voting with me. To be frank, I wasn’t sure whether you would.”

Leliana gave her a noncommittal smile. “A favour for a favour, no? That was the deal. Hang on, I have something for you.” From her laptop bag, she produced a small black jewellery case.

Taken aback, Bethany peered at it. “Are we getting married?”

That made the other woman laugh. “Alas, not today. Here, take it.” She pressed the case into her hands.

Careful to point it away from her, Bethany opened it. The case contained a small silver amulet in the shape of a sunburst on a narrow chain. At its centre, there was an odd, oblong gem of sorts, coloured deep red. When she took the amulet, the gem seemed to move. Only when she touched it did she realise that it was glass, and holding it against the light made her suggest it was a tiny vial full of a deep red liquid. Blood, but not unlike any blood she’d ever seen, and she could not sense any residual power in it. Whoever – or whatever – it had been taken from was long dead. “What … is this?”

The other woman took the amulet and put it back in the case before closing Bethany’s hand around it. “A token of my esteem, Herald. Don’t worry, it’s not dangerous, though I wouldn’t recommend opening it.” Leliana shouldered her bag and turned to leave. “Take it with you when you go to Redcliffe,” the Nightingale said, looking back over her shoulder. “You’ll probably need it.”

Then, she left the room, humming a quiet melody, and left behind an utterly confused Bethany, who was no longer sure who had played whom today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a long chapter this time, hope you liked it. Next up is Redcliffe.
> 
> For Bethany's meeting with Cullen's family, refer to Born Free and Everywhere in Chains.


	7. L'eternita t'apre il suo regno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha I'm glad I was super-busy all summer doing nothing so I've got a good excuse for taking four months on a single disappointing chapter anyway here you go

In the morning of 2 Pluitanis 9:42 Dragon, Bethany Hawke and Ser Cullen Rutherford set out to save the world.

Well, maybe that was putting it a bit melodramatically. They assembled their chosen teams, received final instructions while they geared up, said their goodbyes and boarded the helicopters that were to take them to their destination. Bethany looked after the other helicopter for a bit, until it appeared over the horizon. Cullen had quite the task on his hand, and lives depended on his success. _You worry too much_ , she told herself. Cullen was more than capable; he’d get this done. Besides, he’d taken Cassandra, Varric and Vivienne with him, they’d be a great help. And anyway, what could possibly go wrong? It wasn’t as if the Therinfal templars would bodily attack him.

Her own mission, on the other hand … Through the fabric of her jacket, she could feel the thin shape of Leliana’s blood amulet in her inside pockets. She was still none the wiser about its purpose, and had considered leaving it behind, only to find herself grabbed by a vague sense of dread about what might happen if she didn’t. Leliana was plotting something, that much was certain, and she simply had to trust that it was in the Inquisition’s best interest.          And that the Inquisition’s best interest didn’t involve her dying a gruesome death today.

“Oi,” Sera said, sitting close by her side. Bethany had a surreptitious look through the helicopter’s fuselage, it was rated for 20 passengers and the four of them barely took up half of it. “Stop pining.”

Blushing a little, she returned her attentions to her team. For the occasion, Josephine had forced them into service uniforms – Blackwall in the same blue he’d worn to Val Royeaux; Sera, Solas and herself in Inquisition black. Of course, Sera hadn’t waited two minutes before loosening her tie and by now her outfit could scarcely be considered uniform. Bethany was somewhat jealous, but thought that as the leader of the delegation it wouldn’t do to look _too_ scruffy. Magister Alexius had not seemed like the sort of man who’d be taken in by nonchalant informality. “Sorry,” she said. “Just a bit nervous.”

“Don’t be,” Blackwall told her. “We’ve got a good shot at this. Besides, Lady Nightingale’s people will be on standby to assist.”

She gave a wry smile. “I think I’d rather not have the whole thing dissolve into a massacre, thanks. I just hope Dr Pavus can help us find the grand enchanter.”

“Not to rain on your parade or anything,” Sera said, leaning back, “but how d’ya even know she’s still alive? Not like that Alex guy’s showing her off to gloat about his evil plan.”

“I cannot believe I’m saying this, but Sera makes a good point,” Solas agreed. “If I were Magister Alexius, I would have installed the grand enchanter as a puppet to legitimise my rule over Redcliffe. That he has not suggests he may have killed her.”

“It’s possible,” Bethany conceded. “We haven’t had any solid intel from Leliana’s people, I’m afraid. Josephine believes that Alexius may consider Fiona too influential to kill, but has been unable to utilise her for his purposes.”

“He’s a blood mage, though, ain’t that right? Always thought _those_ people could control your mind.”

Bethany shrugged. As far as she knew, that one was consistently exaggerated by the press. She was pretty sure _Merrill_ hadn’t been able to do that, anyway. “I don’t think that’s actually a thing,” she cautiously said. “… I mean, not that I’d know.”

“Oh, it can be done,” Solas said, smiling thinly. “But it is easy to resist all but the strongest invaders, even for a non-mage. Someone like Grand Enchanter Fiona would not be easily-controlled.”

Sera made a show of shivering. “… says crazy elfy hobo mage, further freaking the shit out of me.”

Solas, piqued, announced that he would use the rest of the flight to catch up on some sleep and that they should wake him once they arrived in Redcliffe.

“So, the grand enchanter,” Blackwall said after Solas had moved a bit further down the fuselage to catch some sleep. “She used to be a Grey Warden, didn’t she?”

“I think so, yeah. Josephine said she’s the only Warden ever to leave the order, but that can’t possibly be right.” She frowned. “I mean, I had a … friend who left the Wardens, but he said it never really leaves you.”

Blackwall gave a sagely nod. “It is a calling. You may stop wearing the uniform, but some part of you never does.”

At that, she frowned. It didn’t really mesh with what little Anders had told them. “He mentioned dreams,” she elaborated. “About the Archdemon.”

For a moment, the warden seemed surprised. “Did he?” Then, he looked away. “We’re not really supposed to talk about that, I’m afraid.”

“… okay then. Anyway, shall we go over the plan one last time?”

Where the drive to Redcliffe on her first visit back had taken several hours, the Inquisition’s Markopter Cougar brought them there in a mere three quarters of an hour. Sera, Blackwall and Bethany crowded around the portside windows when the helicopter came about to look for a landing site in the city’s old town. From up here, they could see the increasingly devastated suburbs to the south, and the sprawling refugee camps that had sprung up around the fortifications of the old town.

“Maker’s arse-cheeks, there must be tens of thousands of people down there!”

“Almost 144,000, people say. People have fled here from all over south-western Ferelden.”

“It’s not really safe, though, is it?” Blackwall noted. “The mages can barely feed themselves, let alone support the refugees. And without the army’s protection, they couldn’t possibly defend the camps against the rebel mages and templars.”

Sera scoffed. “What a frigging joke. All that talk of freedom, and the moment they’re in charge they start stomping on everyone else.”

“I think you’d better not mention that to the grand enchanter,” Bethany dryly commented. Still, Sera had a point – whoever was truly in charge up at Redcliffe Castle had not handled the issue very well, or rather, not at all.

They had not announced their arrival in advance, so that no landing space had been cleared. Their original plan had been to land on an airfield on the outskirts of the city, then requisition a vehicle to enter the old town. Luckily, however, the pilot spied a large open park in-between two rings of fortifications that had not been filled with tents, and the helicopter gently sat down on the grass. Solas had roused himself, and together the four of them stepped off the aircraft onto Redcliffe soil. In her own time in the city, the grand enchanter had attempted to set up a provisional police force of mages to supplement the royal constabulary, but considering the lack of reaction to their arrival, little appeared to have come of it. “Alright then,” Bethany said, straightening out her uniform and pointedly ignoring the small audience that had gathered by the side of the green at the helicopter’s approach. “Let’s get up to the castle. Dr Pavus should meet us there.”

“You sure we can trust that guy? ‘Cause it sure sounds like he’s on their side.”

“He hasn’t given us a reason to mistrust him. Come, let’s get to the castle.”

They got some odd looks on their way up to the castle, especially from mages. Bethany could hardly blame them. Many of these people had fought the templars for years, had been on the run for so long they knew no other life outside the Circle. Their uniforms must frighten them, no matter how openly Solas and Bethany displayed their staves. She tried to smile, but found it only made the people they crossed in the street quicken their steps and lower their heads.

Dr Pavus was awaiting them by the bridge leading to the castle. “Good to see you again,” he greeted her, “Thought you might not make it after all.”

“Perish the thought. Doctor, these are Warden-Constable Blackwall, Solas, and Sera. Everyone, meet Dr Dorian Pavus.”

“How do you do. Now, I can get you inside the castle but I hope you have a plan beyond that?”

“I was thinking we might try talking to Alexius, first,” Bethany suggested. “Beyond that, I’m fairly flexible.” She neglected to mention that Leliana had promised them a squad of her agents as backup, should they need it – though she wasn’t sure if they actually existed, or were in place. Or what their orders were, for that matter.

“That’s it? Let’s hope he listens.”

Dr Pavus lead them across the bridge and through the checkpoint at the gate. Security was up from her last visit: at least half a dozen Northern-looking, uniformed men carrying submachine guns watched their passage through the outer bailey. That was troubling – even if Leliana’s people came to their aid, there would be bloodshed. There were further guards inside the castle, all armed. She gave Dr Pavus a questioning look, he grimaced and shrugged as if to say that he had no idea what was going on.

This time, they didn’t meet Magister Alexius in a laboratory. Instead, Dorian led them into the large medieval chamber that had been repurposed as a council chamber by the grand enchanter. Having asked her companions to wait outside to avoid giving the wrong impression, Bethany approached the dais.

Alexius met them dressed in a plain black velvet morning gown, standing by the massive fireplace, a large, wrought-iron staff in his hand. His son Felix stood nearby, leaning against one of the massive stone buttresses supporting the vaulted ceiling. He looked somewhat sickly, but gave them a subtle nod as they entered. “Ms Hawke,” Alexius greeted her without looking up from the fire, “I had not expected to see you again. You left in a hurry last we met.”

She stepped forward. “My lord magister, I am here to represent the interests of the Inquisition as regards the Free Mages of Thedas. I should like to see Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

“The grand enchanter is in no position to talk to you, I’m afraid,” Alexius replied without missing a beat. “She is undergoing medical treatment under my care and cannot see anyone right now.”

Dr Pavus stepped up to her side. “Really? Because that’s the first I’ve heard of that. We both know you’re not a healer, Gereon. What sort of medical treatment could you possibly provide the grand enchanter with? And for that matter, what happened to First Enchanters Adrian, Astebadi, Raddick, Irving and Bruyne? What happened to them, Gereon?” He paused for effect. “What are the Venatori?”

Only now did Alexius turn to face them. In the flickering light of the fire, the lines on his face seemed to be deeper than they had been last time. “Where have you heard that word? No matter. Is this how you repay me, then, Dorian? All I’ve done for you?”

Felix loosed himself from the sidelines to join them. “It’s not just him, father. We worry about you. You’re not being yourself.”

The magister’s expression hardened. “Felix, what are you doing?”

“Just look at yourself! Who told you to take the project to Ferelden? Void take it, where did you even get the idea in the first place? You’ve even started using blood magic, despite everything you ever taught me! Everyone can see you’ve gotten involved in something that’s way bigger than you can handle. Those Venatori fascists can _not_ be trusted, father!”

Alexius grimly tightened his grip on his stuff, glaring at Bethany and Dorian. “I bring you into my house,” he growled, affability done with. “I have taught and supported for years. And you repay me by twisting my own flesh and blood against me.”

“Felix can think for himself,” Dorian objected. “He saw what was going on long before I did.”

The magister ignored him, accusingly pointing his staff at Bethany. “And you, _Herald of Andraste_ , you walk in here like a thief! You even want to steal my son from me, just like you stole that mark upon your hand from your betters!”

Bethany froze. She’d accepted that some people knew who she was, but how did he know about the mark – and what could he possibly mean? “Explain yourself,” she demanded. “If you know so much about the mark, tell me what it’s for. Where does it come from?”

Alexius scowled at her. “From indolence and sacrilege. Your mark is a mistake. An aberration of fate. You stole it from the Elder One, and I shall correct that mistake for him.”

“What are you talking about? Who is this … Elder One? Is he the leader of your cult?”

“You could not possibly comprehend his power. He has reshaped the Fade itself, changed the very fabric of spacetime. And soon, he will be a god, and Tevinter will rise from the ashes to save this world from itself!”

Felix stomped forward and put his hand on Alexius’ shoulder. “Father, listen to yourself! You’re talking nonsense. You’re a scientist, remember, not some sort of fanatic. Let go of the Southern mages, give the Herald what she wants and let’s just go back to Minrathous …”

“No! Felix,” his voice softened. “My son … all of this is for your sake, don’t you understand? The Elder One has the power to cure you, and he has promised to do so as a reward. All I need to do is correct the mistake made at the Conclave.”

Dorian scoffed. “I thought as much. It was too much of a coincidence for those Venatori not to be involved in the massacre at the Conclave.”

Surreptitiously, Bethany put her hand on her staff. “So you and your people murdered the Divine,” she concluded. This was it – what they’d been looking for all along. The path ahead was clearer now. There could be no more negotiations, and Justinia’s murderers would face justice – one way or the other. All they had to do was figure out who this Elder One was. She drew her staff. “Lord Magister Gereon Alexius,” she announced, “by authority of the Inquisition, I am placing you under arrest for murder most foul. Surrender, and you won’t be harmed.”

Alexius scoffed. “I’m no thug. I won’t fight you.” Bethany resisted the impulse to lower her staff, and suddenly, a thin-lipped smile appeared on the magister’s face. “Luckily, I won’t have to.” He reached for something in his pocket. Alarmed, she lunged forward, brought up her free hand and cast –

The world turned black, her lunge turned into a stumble, and she violently crashed into something cold, metallic and ridged in front of her. Whatever it was, it made a loud clang as it hit something standing behind it. “What the …” Dr Pavus murmured, before summoning a small ball of light to appear in his palm.

Before Bethany’s eyes, the roaring face of a lion appeared. She shrieked, stumbled backwards, and hit a wall that hadn’t been there before. Instinctively, she summoned her magic, only to realise that the lion was a) absolutely immobile and b) made out of steel and c) a helmet. The light in Dorian’s hand threw a thousand shadows in a small room packed to the brim with medieval suits of armour. Relieved, Bethany took a deep breath and tried to steady herself without overthrowing another suit.

“How did we get here?” Dr Pavus wondered. “I was in the great hall, and all of a sudden …”

“… we’re here,” Bethany finished. “Alexius must have cast some sort of sleep spell he had bound to that amulet.”

“If so, why did he have us moved here while we were out? Why not kill us or lock us up?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he wants his armour polished?”

“Hah, now that would be some…  hang on. I’ve seen this suit before.” Carefully weaving his way through the thicket of steel, Dorian moved to her side, looking up at the Orlesian armour with the lion mask she had bumped into. “I saw it outside Lab 12 just this morning.”

“Maybe it’s a duplicate.”

“With all the same notches and dents? Maybe we were out longer than we thought.”

Bethany looked at him. “You mean Alexius knocked us out, then moved us to a storage room and filled it with medieval weaponry?”

“Yes, well, clearly he’s got a dastardly plan we could not possibly hope to comprehend. Let’s get out of here.”

Careful not to bump into any of the more vicious-looking suits of armour, Bethany and Dr Pavus made their way to the exit. Bidding him to be quiet, she tried the door. It was unlocked. She opened it just the slightest bit and glanced out into the hallway. “All clear,” she noted. “Something is very off here.”

“Gee, you think?” With not a soul in sight, they stepped out into the hallway. It looked nothing like the modern-built museum wing, and the rough stone walls, floor and vault were entirely bare but for some unshielded lightbulbs dangling from the ceiling. “I don’t recognise this part of the castle,” Dorian said. “But then, the whole place looks the same to me. Maybe if we find a window, we can orient ourselves.”

When they did, however, the view out of the window raised more questions than it answered. The window went out to the city, suggesting they were somewhere within the curtain walls, but the city itself had changed. It had turned night, but scarcely a window was illuminated: instead, the buildings and fortifications were bathed in a faint red light, emanating from a line of clouds on the horizon. The land south of Redcliffe was burning. Had the rebels attacked the refugee camps? There had been no suggestion of this in the morning’s intelligence briefing.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but it doesn’t look good,” Dr Pavus commented. “Come, we shouldn’t dally here.”

“Probably not.”

They made their way down the deserted hallway, pushed open the door at the end of it – and found themselves face-to-face with an extraordinarily beautiful young woman glaring at them. “And who might you be?” she queried. “State your business.”

“Uh,” Bethany made, baffled. She noted the large wooden staff slung across her shoulder, but was nevertheless quite certain that she wasn’t working with the Tevinter scientists: jet-black hair in a punk-ish sidecut, a large blue feather dangling from her right ear, some sort of runes tattooed on a pale left arm, and a long purple top left plenty of cleavage for a large, elaborate gold necklace to accentuate. Hardly in line with what they’d seen earlier, but she did feel vaguely familiar to Bethany. But maybe that was just her rich golden eyes, now caught in a piercing glare, which she could not help but feel she had seen before, years ago … “Uh, sorry, who are you?”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “‘Tis surprising you have to ask. Never have I seen a uniform such as yours, and the both of you are clearly mages. Is it too much to wonder who you might be?”

Bethany and Dr Pavus exchanged a look. Then, she shrugged. “My name is Hawke. I represent the Inquisition. This is Dr Dorian Pavus.”

“That was not so hard, now was it?” She slightly inclined her head. “You may call me Morrigan. And since we’ve got that over with, let me warn you. The dear doctor will find no welcome here with such a name, nor will an inquisition of whatever sort. From your sudden arrival, may I presume that you are not hear to battle the ‘spawn?”

“The … there are darkspawn here? On the surface?” Even as she said this, and this Morrigan gave an incredulous laugh, understanding dawned upon her.

Dr Pavus’s smile widened. “I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed, “I didn’t think it would truly be possible!” Exuberantly, he grabbed Morrigan’s shoulder, who retreated, lightning crackling between her fingers. “Tell me, my dear, what year is it?”

“You must think me very stupid. Do not touch me.”

“The YEAR, man, the year!” Now Dr Pavus just sounded like he was quoting from something, his eyes were sparkling with glee.

“‘Tis the thirty-first year of the Dragon Age. Do _not_ touch me.”

Bethany’s eyes widened. Upon seeing Morrigan, she had suspected something involving Alexius’ research into time travel had occurred, but this was … wow. “That’s a decade in the past. Didn’t you say your time magic derives from the Breach? How is this even possible?”

“I don’t know, frankly. This is far beyond our most optimistic models. And the timing is odd, too. With all of time to choose from, why now? I imagine this is the Blight, yes?”

“Yeah. The Battle of Redcliffe, by the looks of it – the horde almost broke through the Redcliffe Line, but were thrown back when the Orlesians arrived. Once the battle was over, the army received word that Denerim had been attacked, and marched to the capital’s relief. There, Queen Eleanor would eventually slay the Archdemon and end the Blight.”

“Thanks for the history lesson. This must have been an accident. Something must have drawn us here.”

Morrigan had been listening intently. “You do claim to be time travellers, then,” she concluded. Bethany and Dr Pavus shared a look, then nodded. “I see. I am inclined to believe you.”

Bethany frowned. “What, just like that?” The younger woman was a mage herself, after all, surely she’d know that time travel was _supposed_ to be physically impossible.

“There are more mysteries in the Fade than the mortal mind could ever hope to fathom. Who am I to say what can or cannot be done?”

“Are you sure?” Dorian asked, sounding disappointed. “We can show you our phones and you can marvel at how advanced our technology is, if you like.”

“Do not take me for some sort of primitive. Now, I propose we move someplace less open. Your presence here will soon be detected if you continue to traipse about this carelessly.”

“Right. We don’t want to contaminate the … timeline …” Dr Pavus broke off. “Oh, blast it.”

“You think we’re changing history just by being here?” Bethany asked, catching on. If this truly was the last week of the Blight, she scarcely dared think what their meddling might effect – what if their intervention resulted in the death of Queen Eleanor, and left the Archdemon to ravage Thedas for another year, or two, or even more? What if the Blight reached all the way to Kirkwall this time?

“I’m not sure if that’s possible. Most models of spacetime don’t actually allow for a changeable past. I mean, there’s the whole many-worlds thing, but that’s really more about avoiding a wave function collapse …” Noticing her look, he cut himself short. “Haven’t the faintest,” he admitted. “Let’s just try not to screw things up too badly and get back as quickly as possible.”

“That would be wise.” Morrigan led them down a series of winding corridors, all deserted at this time of night. From a point, the rooms became more warmly decorated, with tapestries and paintings on the walls and chandeliers mounted on the ceiling. Only the thick bundles of cables that criss-crossed the floors detracted from the image of genteel antiquity that presented itself. Finally, the mage led them into a fairly secluded bedroom and locked the door behind them. The fireplace had been lit, and Bethany and Dr Pavus were glad to take the opportunity to rest in the soft armchairs by the fire. Morrigan remained standing, still appearing quite unperturbed. “‘Tis obvious you did not intent to come here. I wonder what might have drawn you to this time.”

“That’s a good question. All of our models indicated that this magic came from the …” Dr Pavus broke off and glanced at Morrigan. “From the Event.”

“I think at this point there’s no reason to hide anything. Either we’ve already changed the past, or nothing we’ll do will.”

“Fair point, but I’ll call you on that if it turns out I accidentally murdered young me. Anyway, the Breach. We _thought_ that it was impossible to move outside its timeline.”

“But we did. The Breach won’t even exist for another decade.” Bethany could feel Morrigan’s piercing eyes watching her as the mage tried to soak in every word, no doubt to discern useful knowledge from it. She told herself not to worry about it; the important thing was getting home.

“True. But time’s a funny thing. We don’t really understand it, despite what you may think. How familiar are you with special relativity?”

“Not?”

“Then I won’t bore you with tales of spaceships and broken glasses. Suffice it to say that spacetime is made up of at least five discrete dimensions – the three classical dimensions of Erasthenian geometry, time, and the Fade; there are a couple more but we don’t really understand them. Coordinates in this system are not fixed but relative to the observer. It is, theoretically, conceivable, that all of time takes place at once, so to speak, in both directions.”

“Uh, okay.” Bethany wished he’d told her about the spaceships instead.

“The Breach, of course, warped the Fade in regard to the other four dimensions, which made it possible to pass through it – or rather, along it – from one time coordinate to the other. Now I suspect it only made it easier, and it was always possible given the right approach. But it’s still highly unlikely that we’d have ended up here, rather than within the Breach’s timeframe.”

Morrigan raised an artfully arched eyebrow. “Am I correct to assume that this Breach is, or rather, will be, a large tear in the Veil? If so, any large confluence of arcane energies would weaken the Veil and draw you towards it.”

“True, but I simply cannot conceive of anything lesser than the Breach that would catapult us outside its timeline – not outside of mythological accounts, anyway.”

“What about an Archdemon?” Bethany suggested. “This is a Blight, after all. And Archdemons _are_ Old Gods.”

“Or so your Chantry says, anyway. But no, I don’t think so. Archdemons do exist outside of Blights, after all. That is simply when they wake and lead the horde to the surface.”

Morrigan, however, had latched onto the idea. “An Archdemon’s slaying does release immense quantities of arcane energy,” she pointed out. “If it is true, as you say, that Eleanor is to slay Urthemiel tomorrow, that might explain what drew you to this time.” Suddenly, her golden eyes went wide. “Hold. You call her ‘queen’. Do you mean to imply that she will survive the battle and marry that buffoon Alistair, in spite of their falling-out?”

Bethany frowned. “The king, yeah. I think they got married a year or two after the Blight ended.”

“And what about General Mac Tir – will he survive the Blight?”

“I think so. They’d have reported his death, I imagine. Actually, yeah, I think there was a bit of a fuss about him being at the royal wedding, so he must have survived.”

“In our timeline, at least,” Dr Pavus dryly pointed out. “Exciting as the minutiae of royal family gossip may be to you Fereldans, why does any of this matter?”

Morrigan did not reply. Instead, she rose to her feet and walked over to the fireplace, contemplating something. “I’ve a wonder,” she finally said. “Did anyone give you something to bring with you here? Perhaps a strange old woman, with golden eyes like mine?”

Golden eyes … suddenly, Bethany remembered who Morrigan reminded her of, and where she’d heard her name before. “Flemeth!” she burst out. “The witch who saved us from the darkspawn on our escape from Lothering. Do you know of her?”

“She was my mother,” Morrigan evenly admitted, yet with an odd cadence in her voice. “Or is, apparently. I appear to have underestimated her foresight. What did she give you?”

“An amulet containing … some sort of aspect of hers, but that was years ago. All I brought with me is the … the amulet Leliana gave me.” She reached into her jacket to produce the necklace. In the shine of the fire, the vial of blood seemed to sparkle faintly, and understanding dawned on her. How on earth could Leliana have planned for this?

“Give that to me!” Morrigan snapped, almost yanking the amulet from her hands. She stepped to the fireplace to examine it in the light, cast a couple of quick spells Bethany couldn’t identify. “Leliana,” she repeated. “That would not happen to be an Orlesian redheaded lay sister?”

“How … oh, she fought in the Blight, didn’t she? Do you know her?”

“One might say that. Did ... will she tell you what this is?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, I can see it’s blood, but there’s gotta be more to it than that.”

Dr Pavus rose to join Morrigan. “May I?” He had a closer look, cast a few spells of his own. “Well, it’s not like any blood I’ve ever seen. Although, I did flunk Introductory Blood Magic at uni, so I’m no authority.”

“Well, that’s comforting. Morrigan, do you have any idea what it might be?”

The mage nodded, turned around to face them and held up the amulet. “I do believe this may be the blood of Urthemiel … the fifth and current Archdemon.”

Even as Bethany gasped, Dr Pavus gave a low whistle. “Volatile _and_ dangerous. Are you sure this Leliana wasn’t trying to kill you?”

“Uh, I’m not so sure now. Why on earth did Leliana want me to bring _that_ with me to Redcliffe?”

Morrigan’s features hardened. “Because I have need of it.”

Bethany and Dr Pavus shared a look. The scientist shrugged, just as clueless as she was. “What could you possibly need Archdemon blood for?”

“Must you be so curious? … I have to perform a certain ritual, tonight. The blood of Urthemiel was the only missing reagent.” She made a face. “Blast that witch. Whenever I think I have uncovered the last of her tricks, she astounds me anew.”

“Leliana?”

That made Morrigan laugh. It was not, in fact, an unpleasant sound, clear and somewhat husky. “Only in her dreams. I know nothing of her future, but I know enough in this time to know she poses no threat. She clings overmuch to her screens and keyboards to look up and see for herself. One wonders how she will fare once this Internet fad is dead and done with.”

Dr Pavus and Bethany shared a look. _Should we tell her?_ it silently asked.

 _Nah_ , the other replied.

No matter how hard they pressed, Morrigan was clearly unwilling to explain the details of her ritual to them. All they managed to discern was that it was, in some way, connected to the Archdemon, and that the blood would form a tether of sorts in a sympathetic relationship. Whatever it was, the whole thing did not sit well with Bethany. The reagent was somewhat more exotic than usual, but this was blood magic, plain and simple. For all she knew, this witch was plotting to bind the Archdemon to her will, however foolish the enterprise. After all, her supposed mother had had a penchant for turning into dragons. “No,” Bethany finally said, pressing the amulet against her chest. “If you want our help with this, you’ll have to give us all the details.”

Morrigan scoffed. “So you say. Consider this: that vial of blood is all that ties you to this time. The very fabric of spacetime aches to throw you back to the future. Tell me, Tevinter, is it not true that without this tether, only a small push would be required to return you?”

Dr Pavus had to think about that for a bit. “It’s possible,” he finally admitted. “Actually, it might just be the most likely solution to our dilemma. Remember, all of this has already happened … I think. If the two of us were to take the slow path to the future, so to speak, your spymaster would probably have found some sign of our transplanted selves in the past … future. So either we disappeared completely, or we returned to our own time.”

“She might have been planning for this,” Bethany objected. “Move future us into the past, so we can fix this whole mess before it even begins.”

“Unlikely. As my father was wont to say, ‘any clever plan that requires more than two things to happen, isn’t.’ Your Nightingale sounds like an extremely shrewd woman, but there are too many factors out of her control to have planned for this. In any case, Morrigan’s ritual might just be our ticket home.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“You do not have to like it,” the witch coolly pointed out. “All you need do is hand over the amulet, and I shall arrange the rest.”

“We don’t exactly have a choice, Herald. We need to get home, stop Alexius, close the Breach and all that jazz. Besides, I suspect you’ve already handed it to her. You know, in the past. Present. Whatever.”

Bethany scoffed. “Alright. Take it.”

Taking the amulet back, Morrigan gave her a slight nod. “Preparations will take some time. I suggest you make yourselves comfortable whilst I go talk to Eleanor.”

Her eyes widened. “The queen is here … of course she is. Dumb question. What do you need her for?”

A shiver of disgust seemed to run down the witch’s spine as she paused by the door. “Something I might regret a couple of months from now.” She steadied herself. “I will lock the door from the outside. I recommend you do not leave this room.”

The witch left, and Bethany and Dr Pavus sank back into their armchairs by the fire. “I don’t like this,” she repeated.

“I don’t either, but we’re in her hands right now. I’d kill to know what she’s planning.”

“She did ask whether the queen and General Mac Tir would survive the battle. Maybe a powerful protection spell, or some sort of spell to weaken the Archdemon?”

“She doesn’t exactly strike me as the protective type.”

Bethany gave a wry smile. “True. In any case, let’s hope it works.”

Hours seemed to pass like that. Eventually, Dr Pavus punched the armrest of his chair. “This is ridiculous,” he exclaimed. “What kind of time traveller stays cooped up in a bedroom for hours?”

“At this point? All of them.”

“Well. I’m going to have a look around. It’s not every day you get to experience history in the making. Care to join me?”

She bit her lip. “We should really stay put,” she pointed out. “Morrigan might be back any minute. Besides, we’re locked in. What are you gonna do, kick in the door?”

Dr Pavus was already on his way out. He briefly laid a finger on the door’s lock, and one brief ethereal glow later there was a satisfying click. “Mage, remember? Are you coming or not?”

“We really shouldn’t,” she said, rising. “Let’s go.”

They still had to be mindful not to be noticed, however. Quite apart from the fact that Redcliffe Castle was probably crawling with military and VIPs at the moment, and they had no business being here, their presence here could only cause trouble for the future, or their younger selves, or any number of other things. Luckily, the corridors of the castle’s living quarters appeared to be deserted at this time of night.

Free to wander, but with no idea of where to go, it took them a while to find anything of interest. Glancing out of a window, Bethany _supposed_ that the city outside the castle held plenty of excitement, but she was not exactly in any mood to face the Darkspawn horde – now or ever. She was grateful she’d been spared the worst of the Blight, and couldn’t even imagine the horrors the soldiers out there in the trenches were going through right now. One more day, she told herself. One more day of fighting, of suffering, and all the death and pain would mean something. Anything. Carver …

Swallowing hard, she tore herself away from the window. Dr Pavus, further down the corridor, had his ear pressed to a heavy oak door and signalled for her to join him. Fragments of a heated conversation wafted to her ear when she did so. A gravelly man’s voice, laying out a point, his voice rising to drown out interruptions. “… cannot expect the Fifth Army to hold the line on its own. If we’re going to defend Redcliffe, we need to leave behind an army that can do so.”

“No one asked _you_ , Mac Tir …”

The next words were inaudible as Dr Pavus softly pushed her back so he could open the door a bit. She held her breath, if they were noticed … but the people inside seemed to be occupied, and did not cease their arguing. Through the crack in the door, she could make out a brightly-lit table in a dark room, lined by laptops and people in military uniforms, although most of it was blocked by a broad-shouldered back in RFA camo. “Enough,” a woman outside their narrow field of view declared, and Bethany immediately recognised the uniquely firm, preposterously posh voice of Queen Eleanor. Come to think of it … “I asked for _Warden_ Mac Tir to be party to these proceedings. Hwy, it would be a waste not to. He has more experience in military matters than anybody else at this table, including yourself, my lord.”

“And see where he’s lead us! We still don’t know what happened at Ostagar, but I do know that we lost a whole lot of good kids there. Their deaths are on him, Lady Cousland.”

“What happened at Ostagar does not change the fact that we need to leave at least the Second and half of the Eighth Armies in place to hold back the left flank of the horde. If we _recklessly_ divert _all_ our forces _to …_ ” The legendary general’s argument was interrupted by the sound of a side door opening.

“You’re not supposed to be in here, Morrigan,” Lady Cousland pointed out. “Hwat is it?”

“Pardon the intrusion. Generals, my lord, I need to borrow the Wardens for a few minutes. Both of them. If you please …”

Although unable to see her face, Bethany could make out the hesitation before Queen – Lady Cousland replied. “Very well. If you will excuse us.”

If the mood in the war room hadn’t been sour before, it was now. The assembled generals kept quiet until Mac Tir had closed the side door behind him. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that,” someone said to general assent.

Someone sighed. “What are the chances Mac Tir is going to do his usual thing and try to micromanage the entire theatre himself?”

“It’s clear we’re not going to get anywhere at this rate,” a woman with a heavy Orlesian accent declared. “I need to telephone to Val Royeaux. Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Yes, I think I better get back to my division myself. Shall we call it quits?”

Dr Pavus tapped her shoulder. “We should leave,” he whispered. “They’re going to come through this door.”

“Right.” As quiet as they could manage, they hurried away from the door and back the way they came. Indeed, scarcely an instant after they had disappeared behind a corner, they could hear chatter and footsteps from the war room. Luckily, none of the assembled officers seemed to be headed their way. “We should head back,” she pointed out. “What do you think Morrigan wanted to see the Wardens about?”

“I’m starting to believe your protection spell theory. Either that, or she’s informing them of our presence. Either way, I wouldn’t recommend lingering here.”

They made their way back to Morrigan’s room, which was just as they’d left it. “What now?” Bethany asked her companion, sinking into one of the deep, soft armchairs by the fireplace.

“We wait, I suppose. Shall we see what’s on the telly?”

“Please don’t. 9:31 was a dark year for Fereldan TV, believe me. Besides, it’s the middle of the night, so unless you want to watch infomercials or _Galaxy Quest_ reruns …”

“ _Original Series, New Adventures, Starbase K-7, Sojourner_ or _Constitution_?”

“Uh, the one with the bald dwarf captain. Also, wow, you’re worse than Leliana.”

Dr Pavus made a show of shuddering. “Perish the thought.” He joined her by the fire.

There, they waited. Bethany’s expectation that Morrigan would return soon to carry them back to the future were soon disappointed, but they passed the time chatting about this and that. Dr Pavus, it turned out, was excellent company to be stranded in the past with – he was an easy wit who did not mind that she wasn’t, and regaled her with anecdotes of his exotic homeland. Soon, however, the exhaustion of their involuntary journey caught up with them and overcame their resolve to wait.

Curled up in her armchair, she slept uneasily. Perhaps owing to the confusion of their situation, her dreams were not quite as lucid as they tended to be. Only a handful of images actually touched her dreaming consciousness directly – some familiar plays on old themes, others new. Carver was among them, looking bright and happy in his new uniform, even as his skin turned an unearthly pallor and started to crack. Then, there was a giant Leliana, peering down at her over a report card and informing her that she’d failed her class on Archdemon-slaying, and how exactly she proposed to catch up on the material? After all, the rest of the class was expected to quickly move ahead to the far more advanced subject of ravenry, kriek-kriek-kriek? A voice, bathed in golden light, nodded sagely and asked in booming tones where it might find the local cheesemonger’s establishment, please? Bethany opened her mouth to give directions, but found she couldn’t remember. There was a drumroll, and –

Bethany was awakened by a low, faraway thundering that seemed to shake the castle in its very foundations. “What … what’s hap’ning?” she murmured, trying to drag her numb legs out from under her. Why was she sleeping in a chair? A drowsy glance over her shoulder revealed Dr Pavus standing by the sink in the corner of the bedroom with his shirtsleeves rolled up, shaving with a little purple razor that she expected belonged to Morrigan. “Mornin’,” she mumbled.

“And good morning to you. Slept well?”

“Ugh.” Stretching, she loosened her tie and took off the belt and sash around her waist before slipping out of her wrinkled uniform jacket. Blessed Andraste, she needed a shower, and a change of clothes. Again, a low thundering noise shook the walls of the castle. “Maker, what _was_ that?”

“Artillery from the frontlines, I would imagine. It’s been going on for a bit now.”

Her heart sank. “So we’re still in the past. Whatever Morrigan did, it didn’t work.”

“On the plus side, a potentially dangerous hedge witch now has access to a vial of Archdemon blood. No idea what she’ll do with it, but I expect it will be smashing good fun.”         

“Very funny. What are we going to do now?”

Pausing, Dr Pavus put down the razor and dried his cheeks with a towel. His luxuriant moustache somehow remained in perfect order. “I don’t know,” he admitted, turning to face her. “Best case scenario, I somehow manage to piece together enough of Alexius’ spell to reproduce it and return us to the present. But it’d take years just to figure out how, exactly, he did it, even if I contact past me to help.”

“We can’t do that,” she interjected. “We still don’t know if what we’re doing here alters the future in any way.” Bethany wasn’t quite sure why she said that. It was the sort of thing time travellers were expected to say to one another, she supposed, but in truth there was something quite appealing about changing the past. They’d been in Kirkwall when the Blight ended, working off their debt to Athenril. Mother had been alive, and though life had been hard for them, it looked like a golden age in retrospect. For all the material comfort and recognition her Deep Roads treasure had bought her, Marian had never smiled at her the same way again.

If she could change the past, make it just the tiniest bit better, didn’t she owe it to her family to try?

Dorian shrugged and gave her a wry smile. “If that’s how you feel, then there’s only one other way back to the future.”

“And what’s that?”

“The slow way.”

“That’s … hardly an option.”

“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers. I’m feeling a bit peckish, care to scrounge up some breakfast?”

Bethany tensed. “What, you mean here in the castle? With the military all over the place?”

“Exactly,” Dr Pavus confirmed, grinning. “Soldiers have to eat, you know. We find the cafeteria and slip in.”

“We don’t exactly look like soldiers, you know. We’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

“You Southerners let mages fight during the Blight, for once, didn’t you? Circle mages don’t wear uniforms. Lose the tie, flaunt your staff and you’ll look the part.”

Hesitantly, she did as Dr Pavus had suggested. She’d already divested herself of the other parts that made her uniform a uniform, and when she looked in the mirror the figure that looked back at her was dressed in ordinary if creasy business casual: a perfectly ordinary look for a Circle mage, in her experience. Dr Pavus gave her a critical look. “Bit plain. Got anything to accessorise?”

She rolled her eyes at that. “Funny.” On second thought, she retrieved her faded old neckerchief from her jacket’s inside pocket and tied it around her neck. “Better?”

“Eh, it’ll have to do.”

“Jerk.”

“I try, I try. Now, let’s go find some food, shall we?”

“Hang on a second.” Something had caught her eye when she searched her jacket for the neckerchief. On the mantle of the fireplace, hidden behind framed landscape prints, candles and other decorative items with more arcane purposes, stood a small grey device, about the size of a USB stick, with two black spots on the front. It took her a moment to realise that they were a tiny camera lens and a microphone respectively, of the sort one might find on a laptop. “Huh. Look at this.”

Dr Pavus joined her, whistling admiringly. “Will you look at that … the room is bugged. Someone’s been keeping an eye on Morrigan.”

“And on us,” Bethany pointed out. “I’d bet my life that the person on the other side of this is Leliana. That’s how she knew we’d travelled back to the past and gave Morrigan the Archdemon blood – she had the whole thing on tape.”

“The more I hear about this Leliana, the more eager I get to meet her. She sounds like great fun.”

“Just never accept anything she offers you to eat and you’ll probably be fine. Speaking of …”

“Yes, let’s.”

Finding breakfast turned out to be a bit of a challenge. Even once they walked into the more inhabited parts of the castle, which were buzzing with activity as the fighting south of the city continued, neither of them were willing to ask for directions to the mess hall. Leaving aside the fact that all of the officers walking the corridors of the castle looked incredibly busy to Bethany, she worried that having to ask for directions would expose them for the frauds they were. As for Dr Pavus, she suspected plain stubbornness played a part.

Eventually, however, the smell of food reached their noses, and they followed it until they found what probably counted for a provisional mess hall. Long folding tables and benches had been set up underneath medieval vaulting, and another table held tea, coffee and a small selection of breakfast foods – the very air felt greasy, and she felt dangerously close to a heart attack just from looking at the assorted sausages, bacon, beans, fat-fried bread and other traditional Fereldan causes of cardiac arrest. Still, Bethany thought as she reached for a tray, presumably quite a bit better fare than what the fighting forces in the trenches got. Having loaded up their plates, Dr Pavus and Bethany looked around for a place to sit where they wouldn’t arouse too much attention, but even at this relatively late hour the room was packed. Finally, Dorian approached a group of junior officers. “Excuse me, mind if we join you?”

If the officers found that odd, they didn’t show it. Mostly, they simply looked tired. “Sure, have a seat. Move over, Kenneth, give them some space.”

“Thanks. I’m Dorian, and this is Bethany. We’re from the Circle – only just arrived here the other day.”

One of the officers raised an eyebrow. “Mages, huh? My cousin’s a mage. Which Circle are you from?”

“Lake Calenhad,” Bethany said.

“Jader,” Dr Pavus said.

They shared a look. “He’s from Jader,” she quickly explained. “I used to be there too, but I was transferred recently.”

“Uh huh. You wouldn’t happen to be healers?”

“Sorry.” Nervously, she ran her hand through her hair. “So, uh, you guys are with the general staff?”

“Regimental staff, actually,” one of the officers, the only woman in the group, replied. The nametag on her uniform identified her as a Lieutenant Reith – at least, Bethany was pretty sure that two pips meant ‘lieutenant’. “Royal Southron Fusiliers.”

Her breath caught. That had been Marian and Carver’s unit, hadn’t it? Yes, she was sure of it. She yet remembered spending days at Lothering’s train station after news from Ostagar had broken, waiting for their safe return. She’d talked to a lot of Southrons then, and what if someone recognised the family resemblance? Bethany forced herself not to jump to her feet and make for the door. Don’t be stupid, she told herself; if she didn’t remember their faces, they wouldn’t remember hers. Besides, she was eleven years older now.

Dr Pavus didn’t seem to have noticed her momentary fright. “Your regiment is helping hold the Redcliffe Line, right? I understand most of the army is to relieve Denerim.”

“Yeah, hence why it’s so quiet today,” a red-cheeked young Ensign Willis added. “Last I heard, a battalion of Legion of the Dead rolled into the suburbs and liberated Huddersfield, Shipton and most of Dalry all on their own. At this pace, we’re gonna take back the capital by the end of the week.”

“You mean the fucking dwarves will,” someone grumbled to general assent. “Our parents’ generation threw them out, and now we _invite_ them to the surface. You can’t seriously believe they’ll go back underground once all this is over. And if they won’t try to stick around, the Orlesians definitely will, now that they’re here too.”

Dr Pavus raised an eyebrow. _Careful now,_ Bethany tried to signal him. Growing up in Ferelden had taught her a healthy appreciation for the kind of comments not to make when people were talking about the occupation, Orzammar and the alliance with Orlais. Of course, growing up in Ferelden hadn’t previously involved foresight courtesy of time travel. “And here I thought Orlais and Ferelden were such good friends. I’m surprised the Orlesians didn’t send troops earlier, actually.”

“Didn’t you hear? After Ostagar, the Orlesians were pushing to get involved. General Mac Tir wasn’t having any of that, though. Good thing, too, from what I hear. If them poncy bastards had their way, they’d thaum half our country to the Void.”

“Most of Ferelden is already blighted,” Lieutenant Reith pointed out. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s radiation or the Blight making the land uninhabitable for a couple of decades. What does matter is getting rid of the ‘spawn.”

Willis frowned. “Due respect, LT, but I thought thaumic weapons do weird stuff to the Veil?” He looked towards Bethany and Dr Pavus for help. “You’re mages, tell me I’m right.”

Dr Pavus shrugged. “Not really my field. Pretty sure you don’t want to get too close to it, though.”

Bethany, however, hadn’t spent the last two months investigating the Conclave attack for nought. “You’re right,” she told the ensign. “People tend to think only about the initial blast and the lyrium fallout. But that largely dissipates after a couple of decades. The real problem is that the weapon itself and the tens of thousands of lives it would extinguish weaken the Veil – possibly even tear it. That means demons, and possessions, even of non-mages. Wounds in the Veil can linger for centuries. I’m pretty sure mages still aren’t supposed to enter Vyrantium without special permission.”

Only after she had finished did Bethany notice that the officers’ eyes were glazing over, causing her to blush furiously and mumble something along the lines of ‘or so I heard’. Dr Pavus, however, chuckled. “You never cease to surprise me, do you? I should stick around after all this is over.”

“Glad someone’s having fun …”

To her relief, the conversation soon turned to other matters. Neither her nor Dr Pavus could follow the officers’ discussions of supply chain logistics, and were paid little to no heed by them as they finished their meals. Ignoring her skyrocketed cholesterol levels for the moment, Bethany found that breakfast had calmed her nerves. Yes, they were still stuck in the past, and there was nothing they could do about it – _but there was nothing they could do about it._ Story of her – well, not quite, but still.

Still, it couldn’t go on like this. Sooner or later, someone would check their backstories, and then there’d be trouble. Even if, by some miracle, no one realised that they’d appeared out of nowhere, they’d be taken to the Circle – a fate she had chosen for herself once before, but hardly something to look forward to. She glanced at Dr Pavus. Competent mage and brilliant physicist he might be, but he did not look as if he’d ever had to run from something in his life, literally or figuratively. Bethany, though, had spent most of her life as an apostate on the run; chances were, she could help them avoid the authorities for quite some time if they kept a low profile.

And then, what? They didn’t feature in any government records, except as their younger selves, whom they really shouldn’t bring into this whole mess. Without documentation, they’d have difficulties even in the run-down hellhole that was Kirkwall, let alone somewhere with a functioning civil government.

And if they did go to Kirkwall? No, Bethany firmly repeated to herself. If she was to meet her younger self or, Maker forbid, Marian … the risk was simply too great. She couldn’t, mustn’t allow it to happen.

For now, however, there was only one option open to them. To get out of here – quickly, and without arousing suspicion. Naturally, walking out of the front gate wasn’t an option available to them … but she’d broken out of the Gallows once. Leaving Castle Redcliffe and fleeing northwards shouldn’t be too difficult by comparison, so long as Dr Pavus remained discreet.

After breakfast, an Air Force officer roped them into providing magical assistance to soldiers about to head down into the trenches. Creation spells didn’t come easily to either of them, but between themselves Bethany and Dr Pavus managed to piece together the requirements of some basic spells that would hopefully protect the soldiers – Valiant Auras, Heroic Defences, the likes. After some deliberation, they even managed to work out how to imbue the thin leafs of a field Chant with a simple Haste spell that would trigger if the page was torn. It wasn’t anywhere near as sophisticated as the work of professional spellbinders, but Bethany was rather proud of it regardless.

Evidently, the Air Force officer was pleased with their work, and soon they were put in a truck with some other mages and driven to a hospital in the city of Redcliffe, which had been largely converted into a field lazaret for the wounded. “I’m no healer,” Bethany had tried to explain to the officer in charge, who’d simply stared at her blankly. She was a mage, was she not? Yes, but not that kind of mage. She was carrying a staff, though, so she had to be a mage. What, then, was the problem? Of course, but there were different kinds of magic – good, then she could use the kind that brought our boys back to their feet, and pretty promptly, please.

She sighed at that and resigned herself to her fate. At the hospital, they spent the better part of the day assisting those more proficient than themselves – healing the occasional superficial wound, setting up auras and summoning spell wisps to help the actual healers during operations. She noticed Dr Pavus trying to reassure his patient that everything was going to be alright, that their injuries could be healed and that the war would be over soon. Bethany couldn’t bring herself to bring such lies over her lips, and largely performed her duties in silence. Most of the soldiers they brought in weren’t in any condition to talk lucidly, anyway.

Every so often, people in protective gear would come in with stretchers, to fetch body bags for the pyres. Two or three times, Bethany thought she saw Carver’s face – pale, veiny, and covered in black boils – but each time, she realised, her mind was playing tricks on her. Carver had died weeks ago, at Ostagar. However little else she’d said about it, that much Marian had always been consistent on.

Only late in the evening did the seemingly endless flow of the injured slow down, and Bethany used the opportunity to draw Dr Pavus outside to one of the balconies attached to most of the hospital rooms. On an adjacent balcony, a group of soldiers was crowded around a radio. Reports from Denerim, from what she could make out; a Radio Ferelden correspondent trying to make herself heard over the sounds of battle in the background. Dr Pavus raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

“We need to get out of here,” she told him. “We’re already stuck in the past. Being stuck in a Circle would only make matters worse.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard about you southerners’ idea of what constitutes a proper Circle of Magi. I take it we can’t just march out of here and be on our merry way? What do you propose?”

She glanced inside the hospital room through the glass balcony door. One of the nurses had turned on a TV in the corner, and none of the patients was paying them much attention. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Not yet. We’ll have to wait for a chance to get out without being detected. Just be ready and keep an eye out.”

“I’ll keep a bag packed and ready. From what I hear, the hard part isn’t going to be getting out, though. It’s staying out.”

“Let me worry about that.” Bethany firmly crossed her arms. “I’ve been an apostate most of my life, and I’ve worked with templars. I know how they operate. So long as we keep a low profile, they aren’t even gonna know we exist.”

“We should go to Tevinter,” Dr Pavus suggested. “We’d be safe there … from your templars, anyway. And I know a couple of very powerful people who’d kill to have evidence of working time travel.” He chuckled. “Some have, too.”

“Not funny. Either way, what’s most important is that we don’t attract attention.”

“Two gorgeous devils like us? That might … Maker above, what’s all that ruckus about? Trying to conspire here, keep it down, please.”

The soldiers on the neighbouring balcony had turned up the volume on their radio, far enough that it was beginning to drown out their conversation. _“… very close to the fighting now, we can see the … the wounded Archdemon perched on top of Fort Drakon. The … I can see the Wardens again, one of them’s laying down fire while the other is advancing towards the Archdemon … we – we’ve just been ordered to withdraw from the area by our escorts, the Warden has drawn a_ sword _if you can believe it … Maker’s breath!”_

With a loud static noise, the broadcast broke off. “What was that?” Bethany wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. Some kind of … Maker!”

All of a sudden, the sky was filled with an unnaturally bright light, blinding in its intensity. Instinctively, her eyes closed and her arm rose to guard against the light, yet nevertheless her eyes burned from the blinding glare – and then suddenly it was oppressively warm and humid, and the murky smell of mould lay in the air. “I can’t see …” Bethany said, shaking. “What happened?”

Dr Pavus groaned. “That must have been the death of the Archdemon. I remember the reports of the giant beam of light that burst forth when it was slain.”

“Right,” Bethany realised. She still couldn’t see a thing. “We could even see it all the way north in Kirkwall.” Carefully, she reached for the railing of the balcony to steady herself – and hit a rough stone wall. “Oh, for the love of … doctor, what are the chances the death of the Archdemon moved us through time again?”

“Considering that I just hit my head on something? Pretty good. What is this, a boiler?”

Her eyes were beginning to adjust. It was dark – the only light shone through what appeared to be a gap under a door … “Looks like a utility room … rough stone walls. Damp, like we’re below the lake. Are we back in the castle, do you think?”

“It’s possible, I guess? I really don’t know. Common sense would suggest _any_ time travel that doesn’t also include some sort of spatial movement would just strand you in space.”

“Why’s that?”

“You know how we have days and years because the earth rotates around the sun and its own axis?”

“Oh. I see. What do you think happened, then, doctor?”

Dr Pavus gave a cheerful shrug and moved to examine the door. “Haven’t the faintest! None of this makes any sense to me. At this point, I’m really just along for the ride. Also, please call me Dorian. We’ve probably spent a couple of years together by now.”

Laughing softly, she shook his hand. “Bethany. Now then, Dorian, shall we see if we can’t get out of this room? It’s like a sauna in here.”

“Yes, it’s wreaking havoc on my shoes. Let’s have a look …” He tried the door handle, but it was locked. Dorian glanced at her. “It’s a cylinder lock. Don’t think my spell will work on this.”

She nodded. “Stand back.” Taking a deep breath, Bethany raised her hands towards the door and focused on the space immediately in front of and behind it. Doing what she was planning without tearing down the entire wall required fine control, so she took a couple of seconds to gradually lower the mass of the air in front of her and increase that of the space behind it, until the door bulged outwards under the strain of massive gravitational forces – one final push, and it burst off the hinges, fell outwards and crashed into the wall behind it as it returned to its proper density. All that remained of the doorway was a small cloud of dust. She turned to Dorian. “Shall we?”

“You know … we could just have melted the lock or something.” Bethany gave the physicist a long, hard look. “Just saying.”

Bethany unclipped her staff from her waistband and readied herself as she stepped out into the corridor. A bit further along, a flickering bare lightbulb dangled from a vaulted ceiling, confirming her suspicions that they were back in the castle – deep in its bowels, presumably, in the cellars carved into the rock below the water level of Lake Calenhad.

More importantly, _when_ were they? Dorian had suggested earlier that they’d been catapulted to before the Breach by the Archdemon’s innate magical energy, acting as a gravitic body of sorts upon them. Morrigan’s ritual, whatever it was, would return them to their point of origin in a slingshot effect, Dorian had theorised. For now, all they could do was hope he’d been right. She wasn’t too keen on spending the rest of her life during the dwarven occupation, or in some dystopian magipunk future. Leather trenchcoats and cybernetic implants just weren’t her style.

What was that noise? Footsteps? There, a voice – another one. Around the next corner.  She didn’t recognise the words – were they speaking Tevene? A glance at Dorian confirmed it. ‘Let’s move,’ she mouthed, pointing in the direction of the voices. The physicist nodded.

As one, they dashed around the corner, and within seconds they had overcome the two Tevinters. Bethany knelt by the side of the man she’d slammed against the ceiling (before letting the ground finish him). His sandy hair was dark and wet with blood, she doubted he’d stand up again. He wasn’t a mage, that much was clear from the grey camo fatigues and the SMG he’d dropped when she killed him. “Recognise him?” she asked Dorian, perhaps a bit too snippily considering the circumstances. Still, he _had_ been part of the Tevinter operation for the longest time.

Dorian gave him a quick glance. “Never seen that guy in my life. Interesting, though – that’s not the same uniform our security contractors wear.”

“Do you think we might have … you know, ended up in the wrong time again?”

“Maker, let’s hope not. This whole time travel thing is getting old. New. Whatever.”

They left the guards where they had fallen and moved on. Long corridors. Flicking lightbulbs. And – “Blessed Andraste!”

Around a corner, and before them a sea of red. From the walls and floor of a large cellar room, jagged red crystals jut out like bones from an open wound. A static charge danced along the crystals’ sharp edges, and the Veil shimmered with excitement. “Red lyrium,” Bethany murmured, a shiver running down her spine. “How did that get here?”

“I don’t know. I presume whatever it is, I don’t want to touch it?”

“Definitely not. Red lyrium is … it’s evil stuff. Enough said.”

They skirted around the crystals and made their way to the door at the end of the room. Again, they took position by the door. Dorian slammed it open with a gust of telekinetic force, Bethany charged through and …

“N-no, no, you’re not real. You can’t be real. You’re dead, I … I friggin’ _saw_ you die …”

“Sera? Sera, is that you?” Primitive, ancient-looking cells lined the walls of the room they found themselves in, segregated by iron bars. Was that – yes, truly. Huddled into the shadows of one of the cells sat a wraith of an elf, staring at them from dull, wide eyes. From the ceiling of her cell sprouted a large, red spike. “Maker above, what happened to you?”

“Stop! Don’t … don’t come any closer. You’re fake, just like all the others. St—stay away!”

“Hey, don’t be afraid. It’s me. We met when you hijacked my car’s GPS, remember?”

That almost seemed to bring a brittle smile to the elf’s face, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Heh. Yeah, I remember that day. That was fun. B-but you’re still not real. You’re in my mind again.”

“We’re not demons, Sera. It’s really us.”

“Heh. Not really though. Just – ‘s alright, innit? Just stay where you are and … stay there. Dunno when I last had anyone to talk to.”

Words stuck in her throat. “Sera …”

“Oh for the love of …” Dorian rolled his eyes and stepped up to the cell bars. “Alexius’ spell worked. It moved us through time. Whatever happened, we can fix it so long as we find Alexius and get us back to our original time.”

Bethany gave the Tevinter a glare. “Very tactful …”

Sera looked contemplative, glanced up at them. “Are you going to let me out of here?” she asked in a voice that was half-plaintive, half-defiant.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Let me see about the lock.” A quick inspection revealed that it was an old-fashioned wrought iron lock, and it quickly melted under her hand.

Haltingly, the elf rose to her feet. Only now did Bethany realise that the dirty rags of what had been her Inquisition uniform hung around a figure far too thin for it. “Then I don’t care what you are.”

Bethany reached out to support her, but Sera roughly brushed her hand aside. “Let’s move.”

With these words, she started to stride down the hallway. Bethany had trouble keeping pace. “Sera, wait – can you tell us the year?”

“Dunno,” the elf murmured. “Lost track around 200 days in.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Too long.”

“Oh, Maker. I’m so sorry, Sera. We’ll make this right; I promise we will.” A strangled, bitter chuckle from the younger woman. Nothing would make this right, Bethany realised. It would only erase it. “… do you know what happened to Blackwall and Solas?”

Sera sharply nodded her chin in the direction of one of the cells. “Thom – Blackwall – used to be in there. Then they moved him. They didn’t like us talking to each other. I don’t know what happened to Solas. Probably dead.”

There was no time for further questions as Sera strode down the hallway ahead of them and disappeared through an open doorway. There was a loud noise – Alarmed, Bethany and Dorian followed, ready to strike – they crossed a corner to find Sera holding a guard in an iron-tight stranglehold, angling for the combat knife at his hip as he struggled to breathe.

It was over before either of them could intervene. Slowly, the guard’s body sank to the floor, gurgling blood. Sera picked up his rifle, checked the magazine, and grabbed another from the guard’s kit.

“We need to get to Alexius,” Dorian pointed out once again. “If he’s here at all, he’ll either be in the museum wing or in the keep.  If we could get aboveground and find a window to orient ourselves …”  His final words were obscured by a gunshot, echoing thunderously through the cellar room and making their ears ring with a stretched-out, high-pitched noise.

They whirled around, looking for the shooter. Sera stood over the dead man. The barrel of her gun wavered slightly in her hands. The dead guard’s face had disappeared in a pulpy red mass. “Andraste’s sake, Sera,” Bethany exclaimed once the ringing in her ears had subsided. “What on earth was that for?”

“Everything,” the elf stated, the image of tranquillity. “Let’s go.”

“Well, they definitely know we’re here now …”

“Which means we need to hurry and get to Alexius. Let’s move it, people.”

They broke into a run. One dark and dank corridor followed another, and Bethany felt a strange sense of déjà vu – in far too many ways, this was like Kirkwall, like their running battle through the gallows. So far, no one had set the castle on fire, but the farther they came, the more red lyrium they found. Growing from the walls and ceiling like a malicious fungus, while glowing red shards littered the floor. Soon, Bethany gave up on the attempt to avoid stepping on them, and the lyrium cracked under each of her steps like snow.

She was out of breath when they stopped before a locked door. Age, she supposed with some annoyance. In the darkness, she could barely make out the door; the lights hadn’t been working for a couple of rooms now. “This should lead up to the surface,” Dorian proclaimed. “… if I’m not mistaken. Hang on a second.” He summoned a small mote of light in his palm. “There should be a sign somewhere …”

Bethany was about to urge him to hurry, when a faint voice cut through the darkness. “Who … is someone there?”

Before she could react, Sera had bolted into the darkness. “Thom? Thom, is that you?” She didn’t know who this Thom was, but when she followed Sera, a wisp of magelight in her palm, she found the elf with her ear pressed to a heavy door.

“S…Sera? Maker, it’s good to hear your voice. Are you alright?” That was Blackwall’s voice, no doubt, faint and croaky though it was. Odd, she was pretty sure his first name was Gordon.

“I’m … I’m fine. Hawke and that Tevinter, the, the scientist, are here. We’ll get you out of there.”

“Hawke? She’s still alive? This can’t be …”

“It’s me. There’s no time to explain, I’m afraid; suffice it to say time travel was involved. Hang on, let me see if I can get the door open …” She didn’t have Dorian’s marvellous little lock pick of a spell, but she did have a diploma in Advanced Primal magic. “Uh, try not to touch the door. Gonna get a bit warm in there.” Laying her hand on the door’s lock, she summoned her magic to heat the metal. It was a fairly simple operation, with the caveat that melting metal required higher temperatures than her fire spells usually produced. Since no mage had the necessary fine control to energise individual molecules, she attempted to heat up the metal using traditional primal magic, and channelled additional mana to insulate the lock, which soon glowed white-hot, from the door and the air around it. It was an inefficient method that quickly drained her mana reserves, but it got the job done.  In fact, it turned out to be somewhat easier than she had thought – the Veil must be thin here, she idly noted without bothering to check.

Bethany expended some of her remaining mana to speed up the cooldown of the molten metal, then threw upon the cell door. A faint red glow met her, and she realised with a shiver that almost half of Blackwall’s cell was filled with red lyrium, growing from walls and ceiling. Even the makeshift bed at the back of the cell was overgrown with them. The Warden himself stood by the door, looking somewhat bemused. Whereas Sera was dishevelled and ragged from her imprisonment, Blackwall had held onto whatever shreds of normality he had been able to find. His Warden uniform, while in a sorry state, was in perfect order, down to the tie, pocket square, and silverite wings on his chest. Blackwall’s pristine appearance, however, could not belie the pervasive stench of a man who had gone without even the most basic sanitation for months. And – were her eyes fooling her or were Blackwall’s eyes as red as the lyrium around him?

“It really is you,” he murmured, eyes wide, as he stepped out of the cell. Indeed, his eyes _were_ a bright red, and there even seemed to be a certain glow around him – a hum in the Veil, a crackle. “I don’t know how you survived, but Maker knows I’m happy to see you.” His eyes fell on Sera. “Sera, I …”

Before he could go any further, the elf had flung her arms around his waist. Somewhat awkwardly, the Warden patted her back. Mildly embarrassed, Bethany turned away and moved over to Dorian. He gave her a slight nod, having succeeded with the locked door. Sera and Blackwall re-joined them shortly. “We’re trying to go back in time to stop this – all of it – from happening,” she briefly explained. “I know it sounds weird, and we haven’t much time to explain. Do you know where they took Solas?”

“Solas …?” Blackwall slowly repeated, looking rather dazzled from a tale even Bethany was forced to admit was unlikely. “I don’t know. Last time I saw him was the day they captured us.” He shivered. “If he’s lucky, they killed him quickly.”

Bethany looked around the cellar room. Even with their magelights and the faint glow of the lyrium, it was too dark to even see as far as the edge of the room. Cold, humid air smelled of mould, moss, and human excrement. Grim, but surely he was exaggerating. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Solas. He’ll turn up, you’ll see. Now, we need to get to Alexius …”

“Wait.” Blackwall reached for her arm. “Sister Nightingale is here somewhere.”

“Leliana?” she muttered. Almost on its own, her hand went for the vial of Urthemiel’s tainted blood the Nightingale had given her – but no, she had left that with Morrigan, in another time. Whatever the witch had done with it, it seemed to have worked, at least – however dire their new situation appeared, at least there weren’t any darkspawn rampaging about the castle. Still, she did not trust Leliana. If she was working with the Tevinters, that would explain much and raise more questions still.

“I overheard the guards talking – I don’t know when that was. Maybe a couple of months. They captured her not long after us. Chances are, they kept her alive.” Huh. Not a traitor, then. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised – after all, Leliana had never given her cause to doubt her commitment to the Inquisition’s mission, specifically. It was simply everything else about her recent behaviour that frightened her.  

Dorian elegantly arched an eyebrow. “The way I understand it, she’s the one who plotted this whole time travel mess in the first place, isn’t she? Sounds like a useful person to have around. Shall we look and see if we can rescue her?”

He did have a point. Leliana always seemed to know everything and would indubitably have information useful in their own time. Besides, having a Blight veteran by one’s side was never a bad thing. Hopefully. “Right. We can keep our eyes open, but we should really prioritise getting back home.”

“Agreed. Let’s move.” The door, it turned out, did lead to a stairwell – part of the castle’s medieval core, no doubt, winding and narrow and barely lit. It was a long climb – several times, they had to stop to allow one of the recent prisoners time to catch their breath. “Why didn’t anyone come for you?” she asked at one of those stops.

“Don’t know. Maybe they did,” Blackwall replied, supporting a wheezing Sera. “Maybe that’s how they got Lady Nightingale. They didn’t exactly give us a daily news bulletin.”

“Right, sorry.” It was a concerning thought: if Leliana had indeed been captured trying to mount a rescue mission, the Inquisition must be in very dire straits indeed. How long had it been – in this timeline – since their involuntary journey to the past? A year? Two? Without her, the Inquisition – the world – had no way of closing the rifts that were still appearing all over southern Thedas. Sunder the Veil in enough places and, well … shivering, she pushed the thought aside. Before her, Dorian halted; they had reached the top of the long stairwell. Whereas the prison must have been set deep into the bedrock under the castle, it seemed to Bethany that they had now reached the surface, high above the water level of Lake Calenhad. She reached for her staff and braced herself as Dorian pushed open the door.

They found no enemies, no Tevinter mercenaries beyond it: just a hallway stretching out to their left and right sides, lined with tall, brass-set filigree windows on one side. Just in front of them, an open glass door went out to a balcony overlooking the lake – a late addition to the castle, judging by the architecture, on a side that would have proven nigh-impossible to attack without modern technology. Yet this thought could not have been farther from Bethany’s mind as she and her companions stepped out on the balcony and looked up at the sky.

No sun stood in the sky, but neither did the moon and stars. Regardless, the lake and castle around them were lit as bright as a summer noon, but in sickly shades of green and grey. In the sky, clusters of pallid clouds slowly swirled around like an upside-down maelstrom with bright green at its centre. It was impossible to tell where the Breach began and where it ended – if it ever ended, it seemed to encompass the entire sky. And there, on the horizon – was that a ship floating in the air, hundreds of metres above the water level? Indeed, upon closer inspection there were a number of objects – rocks and small boats, mostly – suspended in the air.

Only now, turning inwards, did Bethany notice how thin the Veil was – threadbare, in some places, and barely there in others. For all intents and purposes, the barrier between the real and the unreal had all but disappeared, and she could feel magic crackling on her skin and hear the siren song of the Fade in her mind. “Maker have mercy upon us …” someone whispered, and it took her a moment to realise it had been her.

“He doesn’t give a fuck,” Sera murmured without looking at the sky. “World’s done for, anyway. Might as well have Him turn off the lights and start over again.”

Irritated, Bethany glanced at the elf. She was fiddling around with her gun, a hollow expression in her eyes. How could she say something like … no, Bethany told herself, she wasn’t going to start thinking about that. “Not if I have anything to say about it. I don’t care if I have to fight my way past every demon in the Fade to get there, but I’m going to find Alexius and make this right.” Tightly gripping her staff, she turned her back on the grim spectacle in the sky and marched back inside. “Which way?” she asked Dorian.

“Let’s try the Arl’s Solar first. That’d be … left, I think.”

Following Dorian, they made their way down the corridor and through a flight of rooms without encountering much resistance. Clearly, Alexius’ men had abandoned much of the castle, and no surprise – several of the rooms were practically overgrown with massive deposits of red lyrium, which had in places pierced through the ceilings, broken through walls or shattered floor tiles. Heavy dust lay on the furniture, and – were those empty casings strewn across the floor? Upon closer inspection, one of the walls was marred by pock marks that could only have been caused by gunfire. A fight had taken place here, but there was no trace of the combatants. Still, Bethany was pretty sure she could make an educated guess.

Her suspicion was proven correct when they took a corner to a loud, wet crunching noise. “Hold on,” Dorian whispered, holding them back. “You see that? Fadelost up front.”

It took her a moment to realise what he meant. In the faint green gleam of the Breach outside, she could make out a hulking silhouette squatting on the floor over what appeared to be a human corpse. Only slight twitches of its grotesquely misshapen arms and shoulders and the sounds of sloppy eating. “We call them abominations down here,” she whispered in response, softly extending her staff. “I’m still low on mana, so if you want to go …”

“Gladly.” With a flourish, Dorian reached out. Delicate fingers shaped a quick series of gestures, and – she wasn’t sure what he had cast, but the abomination let out an anguished cry. Shaking, it shambled to its feet and turned to face them. But Bethany was already pressing the attack, channelling her remaining mana through her staff to bombard the abomination with ceaseless wafts of flames. Roaring, the abomination reared, and with surprising celerity shambled towards her – well, this would be _fun_. Exasperated, Bethany started preparing a Mind Blast to stun the creature; Sera whipped up her SMG and –

Before the elf could fire a shot or Bethany could cast her spell, the abomination stopped in its tracks. A shiver, a boiling, went through its grotesque body – and then it exploded. Its back burst open, showering the room in gore.

She sheathed her staff and took a deep breath, through her mouth. Then, she said: “ _That_ was disgusting. Please never do that again.” With a shudder, she flicked what appeared to be a chunk of bloody flesh off her shoulder.

“Uh, sorry about that. Walking Bomb – never really tried that in an actual fight before. Think I’ll stick to entropy spells for now.”

“Probably a good idea,” Blackwall dryly commented. He stepped up to the corpse the abomination had been occupied with. “They’re cannibals now? Why am I not surprised…”?

“Well, the Fadelost are really just dead bodies remote-controlled by a demon. They do have metabolisms. I suppose if the closest thing to food they had was …”

“Please stop talking now. Thanks. Shall we?” She couldn’t resist glancing at the corpse as they left the room. The face had been rendered unrecognisable, but the body wore the same uniform as the security guards they’d encountered before. The abomination … well, whoever it had been, there was no longer any way to tell. That was something of a relief – she wasn’t keen to find out if she recognised the creature’s face. At least the whole sordid affair did have one upside in that the dead security guard’s weapon lay just next to him, and Blackwall joined Sera in arming himself.

It wasn’t that Bethany had expected this whole business in Redcliffe to go smoothly, she told herself as they marched on through nondescript corridors and stairways, putting down the occasional Shade. Indeed, she’d gone through most conceivable scenarios beforehand with Leliana and Josephine. Leave it to a Hawke to find the one scenario no one could have anticipated – except, perhaps, for the Nightingale. The camera in Morrigan’s room, more than a decade ago – the vial of Archdemon’s blood – her cryptic directions; all pointed towards her foreknowledge. Leliana knew her from Lothering, she would likely have recognised Bethany on the tape, especially after the Kirkwall Inquiry had brought her back up again. If so, and if what Dorian had said about time being static was true, then Leliana must have known about Alexius’ spell, and had not warned them.

 _But if that’s true_ , she realised, _then nothing we do here today matters._ Even if they did find a way back to their own time, this bad future they now found themselves in would still come to pass. Maybe she’d die, leaving no one to close rifts. Maybe Alexius would just send them through time over and over again. Or maybe they’d never find their way back in the first place, and were stuck here. When Bethany quietly voiced those concerns to Dorian, he merely shrugged. “Honestly? I’ve given up on trying to figure out how exactly this shit works. At this point, I’m just along for the ride.”

“Very reassuring.”

Whatever conclusions about Leliana she might have drawn, she did not have long to worry about them: as they ascended one flight of stairs after another and finally passed into the castle’s main bailey. What awaited them there matched their observations from the balcony: ruined buildings, withered trees, chunks of brickwork floating high above the ground, held aloft by dark magics, ammunition casings strewn around the courtyard. The air crackled with power all around them, and though they closed both of the large rifts raging in the bailey, countless smaller ripples and fractures remained visibly even to the unattuned eye.

It was there that they heard the scream, followed by angry shouting. It came from one of the keep’s windows overlooking the bailey, wide open despite the chill in the air. “That’s Lady Nightingale’s voice,” Blackwall said, alarmed. “We need to move.” Bethany didn’t bother to reply as she broke into a run.

They entered the keep, found their way upstairs, and kicked in the door. Two Tevinters in a darkened room, looking over a woman’s figure strangely contorted and hunched by the window. Her arms were tied high above her head; the very sight of it made Bethany’s shoulders hurt in sympathy. The first Tevinter looked up to find a bolt of arcane energy flying towards him, and didn’t even have time to cry out before his skin melted under the impact. His fellow uttered a curse, reached for his staff. Lightning gathered around his fists – with a muffled cry of pain and exertion, the woman behind him dragged herself up on her binds, wrapped her legs around the Tevinter’s neck, and _snapped_  –

Together, they collapsed, the one above the other. Bethany hurried to their side, checked the guard’s pulse: he was dead. Groaning, haltingly, the woman tried to right herself; collapsed on tormented arms. Blackwall and Bethany took her between them, got her on her feet. It was dark: against the backlight of the Breach shining in from the bailey, the woman seemed half a spectre herself. “Leliana?”

Her mental image of Leliana had formed in the weeks immediately after the Conclave attack: always pretty and sophisticated, always treading a fine line between austere solemnity and quirky extravagance, a frequent smiler whose smiles always seemed slightly too sincere to be accidental. The face that now turned towards her had none of that. Somehow, it had been so disfigured as to be barely recognisable as human – whether by spell or by acid, she could not tell, but it almost appeared as though Leliana’s face had melted. Her eyes, however, were cold and sharp as shards of ice, and glared at her with such dispassionate force that Bethany recoiled as if stung by a snake. This was not the same woman who had plotted to send her back to the past, or whatever she had indeed done. “You live,” the Nightingale said, rather, snapped. It was not a question.

“It’s … it’s a long story. Maker, what happened to you?”

Leliana ignored the question, cast a fleeting glance through the room. “Time travel,” Dorian volunteered. “It’s pretty cool.”

“Shut up. Do you have a plan?”

“Uh, sort of. Get to Alexius, go back in time and prevent any of this from ever happening. Are you hurt?”

Ignoring the question, Leliana shook herself loose of Bethany and Blackwall and strode over to the first of the two dead guards to pick up his gun. She had to squat down to pick it up from the floor, and held it oddly, half on her hip. “Alexius’ office is just upstairs.” The Nightingale moved for the exit, but Bethany reached for her arm – a bad choice, clearly, as Leliana gasped in pain at the touch.

“Wait! Uhm, sorry. Do you … do you know the date? It’s important.”

Leliana gave her a long, hard look from cold eyes, and she withered under it almost immediately. Finally, the Nightingale grudgingly replied: “As far as I can tell, it’s Kingsway 43.”

From the sides, Dorian glanced at her. “So it’s been almost a year and a half. Pardon my Qunlat, but how the fuck did the world go to shit so quickly?” Leliana paid him no heed. Following her out into the corridor, Dorian hurried after her. “I mean, what happened? Was there another Breach? A war?”

“Stop talking.”

“I’m just asking …”

“You’re talking to fill the silence. You do not want to know.”

Bethany bit her lip. Maker, this was going to be difficult. “Listen, Dorian is right. If we’re going to go back in time and stop this from happening, we need to know _how_ it happened. I know the past year has been hard on you …”

The finger was poking at her chest before she even realised Leliana had turned around. “You know _nothing,_ ” the Nightingale hissed. Her glare could have made a dragon cower in fear. “You have _no idea_ what happened. Don’t even try to understand, because you never will. You don’t even care, because this isn’t your world. You have not had to live through it, and you will go back to your shiny happy life and never spare another thought to what we had to live through. So spare me your sympathy.”

Bethany said nothing. Turning away after a long, hard glare, Leliana sighed. “Very well. Shut up, and listen carefully. After you disappeared, Empress Celene and Archon-Elect Calpernia Liberata were both assassinated in short order, leaving hardliners in charge of both Orlais and Tevinter, who ramped up the rhetoric and started sabre-rattling over the Breach. We tried to mediate, but with our only reliable method of dealing with rifts gone, the Inquisition was sidelined. Around the same time, the civil war in Orlais continued unabated despite Gaspard’s ascension to the throne: a splinter faction of rebel templars empowered by red lyrium began mounting concerted attacks in the Dales, while in the west an army of demons appeared. I don’t know where it came from.” She swallowed, hard, and continued in a slightly higher-pitched voice. “Naturally, this led to mounting tensions with Tevinter. By the time demons crashed a passenger plane from Minrathous to Val Chevin, well … there was an exchange. A thaumic exchange.”

Dorian let loose a string of curses in Tevene, but Bethany did not even manage one expletive. A thaumic exchange? She tried to conjure up what that meant: millions dead, billions? It didn’t really seem to catch on in her head, could only be comprehended as an empty disembodied figure. She tried to visualise the idea, imagine a devastated city, but it felt false and abstract. A thaumic exchange? That was just a phrase to her.

Blackwall had appeared behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “She’ll make this right,” he told Leliana, expressing way too much faith in her. “I know she will. Let’s go pay Alexius a visit.”

“Wait.” Taking a deep breath, Bethany turned to Leliana. “The time travel thing. You knew it would happen, didn’t you? Actually, I think you may have caused it.”

Without hesitating, the Nightingale nodded. She hadn’t expected that: the Leliana she knew would have lied, Bethany thought. “I saw you on the footage of Morrigan’s room the night before the Battle of Denerim. Didn’t actually realise it was you until I saw you again at the Conclave, but that’s when I started planning to make sure events would come to pass the way they did. I knew you’d travelled to the past, and then disappeared again – to the present, or so I thought. After that, connecting the dots was trivial.”

“But … why? And why did you trick me? I mean, you could have told us …”

The Nightingale made an exasperated noise. “You didn’t need to know, did you now? But it was important that you did go back, I thought. You’d brought Morrigan a vial of Archdemon blood, something she could not possibly have obtained before Eleanor slew Urthemiel. But somehow, I don’t know how, she used it to save my friend’s life – don’t look at me like that. I used to have friends. Do you understand now? I thought I had to do it, make _you_ do it because it had already happened. There was a chance you’d be stuck in the wrong time, or worse, and I took it. Everyone is expendable.”

“Expendable?!” Dorian snorted. “Look where it got you. If not for you, Alexius …”

Bethany interrupted him. “…  would still have sent us through time, except maybe then we wouldn’t have ended up anywhere near as pleasant. I hate to say this, but I think Leliana might be right. I mean, we got some useful intel out of it, at least, assuming we can get back home.”

“It’s callous. I don’t even want to know how many died.”

“They would have died regardless, now wouldn’t they?”

“Shut up, both of you.” Leliana stepped between them, adjusting her gun. “Pavus, I am not omniscient. I wouldn’t be here if I was, none of us would. And you, Hawke – you of all people should know better than to dismiss what happened here.” She scoffed. “Follow me. Let’s end this farce, once and for all.”

 

 

By the time their helicopter set down at Bexley Air Base, it was the afternoon of 3 Pluitanis – 9:42 Dragon. Josephine and Leliana awaited them on the runway – her Leliana, the one who still knew how to smile. Bethany glanced over her shoulder. There was Dorian, looking just as exhausted as herself, followed by Sera and Blackwall, lightly mocking Solas over something or other. And there, setting down right behind them, the first of many helicopters in Inquisition livery that would make the journey back and forth between Redcliffe and Bexley over the next few weeks, carrying those mages whom the grand enchanter had volunteered to serve with the Inquisition directly. The rest –well, they’d have to be taken care of. It was a daunting task by any measure, but Bethany was nothing if not determined.

“Welcome back,” Josephine greeted her with a brief hug. So did Leliana, but Bethany could scarcely bring herself to return the embrace. “I take it things went well?”

She grimaced. “Sort of. Can we debrief later? I feel like I haven’t slept in, well, years.”

Leliana gave her a knowing smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course. Now, let’s welcome the Grand Enchanter.”

Fiona’s helicopter had set down beside its twin, and the diminutive elf was striding towards them with quick, determined steps. “Grand Enchanter,” Bethany greeted, waving in the direction of the other two women, “may I introduce, Lady Josephine Montilyet and the Left Hand of Divine Justinia, Leliana.”

“A pleasure.”

The Grand Enchanter’s expression could only be described as taxonomic. “Likewise. While we’re standing here, I’ve got some terms …”

Flustered, Josephine smiled. “Surely we can hammer out the details tomorrow, in Haven?”

“I spent the last six months imprisoned in my own castle while my people were slaughtered and starved around me. I think I’d rather get to the point. Your emissary, Serah Hawke, wasn’t all that … clear on your proposal.”

“I’m sure we can come to some mutually beneficial arrangement,” Josephine assured her, once again all charm and servility. Leliana had already disappeared somewhere, and Bethany couldn’t help but feel disgruntled that she hadn’t noticed, while the rest of her party plus Dorian had been dragged off for debriefing by an officer. The more she thought about it, the clearer it became that Leliana wasn’t playing the same game as them. “Our top priority is restoring order in the Dales and south-western Ferelden – I’m not sure if you’ve seen the five point plan we published last month. We will of course need your mages’ assistance in closing the Breach, first of all, but after that we’re hoping to supplement regular Inquisition forces with mages to rebuild and enforce local government in the affected areas … oh, excuse me.”

Both Bethany and Fiona followed Josephine’s gaze to the fenced-in perimeter of the air base. A small convoy of drab grey lorries and buses had manifested by one of the gates onto the air base. Whatever they were, they were quickly waved through and made their way to the hangars – except for one bus, which swerved out of the convoy and was headed towards them. Bethany gave Josephine a questioning glance. The diplomat reached for Fiona’s arm. “Grand Enchanter, let’s discuss further matters inside. It’s getting rather chilly; don’t you agree?”

“I think not. I’m curious what the meaning of this is.”

The bus came to a halt in front of them. The windows were almost entirely clad in metal, and a small line of white lettering indicated the buses were Fereldan military property. “Are we getting reinforcements from the army, or something?” Bethany wondered.

She was proven wrong when none other than Ser Cullen stepped out of the bus. Josephine gasped at the sight of him; he was badly-battered and carried an arm in a makeshift brace. “Maker have mercy, what happened?”

Cullen’s eyes flitted back and forth between Fiona and Bethany. “We had some … complications,” he said, obviously trying to be evasive. “We faced heavy resistance. Lost a lot of people – I’m afraid this is everyone who made it out. We’ve got … um.”

“Please, do continue, knight-commander,” Fiona drawled. Bethany was certain the use of his old templar rank was no accident. “I think we’re all quite curious just what exactly the mission you accomplished was …” Glancing over her shoulder, Bethany saw a group of mages emerge from a helicopter, joining those who had arrived with Fiona. Slightly apart from them were a handful of Inquisition soldiers, for the most part unarmed ground crew. There was little they could do, should the worst come to pass.

“Well, Grand Enchanter, uh, it’s like this …”

“What the commander means to say,” Josephine smoothly interrupted, “is that the Inquisition feels it is of paramount importance that all parties willing to help restore order to the world get the chance to do so. That’s why we’ve reached out in the spirit of goodwill and reconciliation to … oh, bugger it.”

A templar had stepped out of the bus after Cullen. Her scarlet uniform was just as battered and dirty as Cullen’s black, and she had a rifle and a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. The moment she saw the robed mages, however, she dropped the latter and grabbed the former, shouted an alarm to her comrades inside the bus. “Stop!” Bethany shouted at the very same instant as Cullen loudly ordered her to “put that down before someone gets hurt.” The Inquisition soldiers hurried towards them, tried to form a dividing line between the mages and templars. Furious shouting. Nervous hands on guns, crackling magic. A red-faced Fiona trying to make herself heard over the ruckus. Cullen, calling for reinforcements on his radio. Bethany turned to look at him. She wasn’t sure which of them looked the worse for wear right now.

“How many?” she asked, as quietly as possible considering the noise around them.

“Too few. We were … too late. They’d already started using red lyrium, and there was an envy demon controlling them. If not for Cole …”

“Cole?”

He grimaced. “I’ll explain later. What about you guys?”

Frowning, Bethany looked around the air field. No bullet had been fired, no spell cast, but the tension lay thick in the air. Both crowds, still growing by the minute as new arrivals joined their camps, were visibly near boiling point. “We managed,” she said. “Got a couple things we should look into. For now, let’s try to keep the peace and worry about debriefing later, okay?”

“Okay. Gotta find some peace to keep first, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, badly-understood physics! Also fuck off Thedas only has one moon.


	8. And lo, the Angel of the Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this took a while ... about the latter half of this was written as part of my NaNoWriMo project; check out my other fic -- To Weather the Storm -- for the other stuff I've done this month so far!

In its death throes, winter had brought all its legions to bear on Haven. Her breath crystallised in front of her face, and fine dusty snow gathered on the shoulders of her coat. She couldn’t have cared less. “How many?” she asked Cullen next to her, her voice strained as though each word cost her great effort.

“Eighteen wounded, some badly. Three dead.” Cullen glanced at her, reached out a hand, then dropped it. “You don’t have to be here, Hawke.”

“Yes, I do.” She raised a hand to cover her mouth. “Maker, I still can’t believe it. I feel like I’m in a bad dream and I’m gonna wake up any minute now.”

A corpse lay at their feet, sprawled out on its side. Frozen blood stained the light snow around it. It was the body of a young woman barely out of her teens, dressed in a light grey coat and black leather knee boots. Dark skin, a sidecut dyed purple. Her face was buried in the snow, but Bethany had no illusions about who this was.

“Ella,” she murmured, swallowing hard.

“Haven’t even turned her around yet. Could be someone else.”

Weakly, she indicated the base of the girl’s neck. “See that?”

“A tattoo … stars. A constellation?”

“Bellitanus, the Maiden. Ella told me she got it in Jader, when she had to flee the hunters. A keepsake from a mundane girl she fell in love with there, who helped her hide from the templars.”

“Mmh. This girl have a name? Do we have some way to contact her?”

“I never thought to ask.”

They looked down at the corpse. Ella, Ella – Bethany tried to think of her face, but all it brought to mind were pained smiles and stoic endurance. Her apprentice, her friend, who had never quite fit in. Bethany hadn’t known Ella had been among those mages who volunteered to accompany them back to Haven to seal the Breach. What was it she had told her, months ago in Redcliffe? To come to the Inquisition for help, if the going got tough?

“I’m sorry,” Cullen murmured. “I know you were close.”

“Mmh. You ever talk to her?”

“Don’t think so. Maybe. In passing.”

“She was always afraid of templars. She never trusted you. Gave me hell for joining the MCIS.”

“We weren’t all that trustworthy.”

Bethany wasn’t sure what to say to that. Ella didn’t have any answers, either. “The murder,” she said, instead, straightening herself. “Do we know who did it? What happened?”

“I’m having people working on it. No couple witnesses have come forward so far, but from the looks of it a fight broke out outside the Singing Maiden last night, around 2am. Some mage spilled a templar’s drink or something, or someone bumped into someone. Pretty soon, knives came out. Ella tried to separate them.”

“And got stabbed for her trouble. Why didn’t anyone get help? She bled to death, for goodness’ sake.”

“People were afraid. Blood has a way of cooling the most irate mind. I’m sorry, Hawke. We’re doing what we can to bring the culprits to justice.”

She nodded. “A mundane and a mage or templar to a team. One to put them at ease, the other to watch the first.”

“Already doing that.”

“What about … what about the other victims?”

Cullen sighed, pocketed his hands in his heavy black greatcoat. “A templar, and one of our mundane people. Both of them died following heavy burns sustained during a fracas in Camp Beatrix. We’ve taken four suspects into custody. In the meantime, I’ve ordered my people to enforce a curfew. I’d like to separate mages and templars, for the time being. At least until we can figure out what to do with them.”

Slowly, Bethany shook her head. Ella still lay in the snow, lifeless and still. Around her, Leliana’s people were packing up their little crime scene markers and evidence bags. Someone approached with a body bag; Bethany turned away. “Walk with me,” she told Cullen.

They walked down the village’s High Street in silence. Every now and then, it seemed as though the light snowfall would subside, only to come back seconds later. A few of the remaining shops – the ones that had not been closed, abandoned, or requisitioned after the Inquisition had transformed Haven into its headquarters – began to open, but many more remained dark. “I’ll climb up to the Temple today,” Bethany mentioned offhandedly, peeking inside a darkened bakery. “With the help of the mages and templars, I might just manage to close the Breach. We’ll see about after.” She paused, tapped her foot. Fresh snow crunched beneath her boots. “We’ll need to do something about Haven once the Breach is gone. Find a new base of operations, with better infrastructure. Somewhere in Orlais, maybe.” She glanced at Cullen, who showed no sign of reacting. “Cullen?”

Wordlessly, he stripped off his gloves, reached inside his coat, and produced a thrice-folded sheet of paper. He handed it to her. “I’ll be tendering my resignation later today, when we meet in council. I’ll do my best to find someone to replace me, then I’ll step aside.”

She stared at it. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Maybe not. I expect the others will make it clear that I’m free to stay on. The question is whether I agree with them, and I don’t.” He sighed. “Therinfal was an unmitigated disaster. Most of the templars on our side died on the spot. Almost half of our support team were casualties. I myself only escaped thanks to some sort of demon. I’m responsible for that. I misinterpreted the intelligence, made the wrong choice, and got our people killed. I was a templar, Hawke – still am, in a lot of ways. They taught us to stand by our mistakes and know when to step aside. There’s no way around it.”

“Trying to get both mages and templars on our side was my idea, Cullen, you know that. If anything, I should be the one to resign from the council. The Maker knows I’m not cut out for it, anyway. Those deaths – Ella’s death – are on my head.” She gave a sombre little smile. “But I’m the bloody Herald of Andraste, so you’re taking the bullet instead.”

“Don’t say it like that.” They walked on. “We made this decision together. And Leliana supported us, too. The difference is in how we handled things. You didn’t lose anyone, and you brought dozens of mages into the fold, maybe hundreds. And, yes, we need you on board, or this Inquisition is nothing more than a farce.”

There it was, the crux of it. No matter what Cullen might say, he was taking the fall so she could stay on as the Inquisition’s trump card. Stiffly, she straightens herself. “We can talk about that later. Just keep the letter for now, alright? Think it over. A change in leadership is the last thing your people need right now. I should get ready. I imagine my escort is already waiting for me to take on the Breach at the Temple FOB.”

“Right. You sure you don’t want to take more people? We have no idea what you’ll face once …”

“I’ll be up there with two dozen mages and templars, plus the regular garrison at the Breach. I’d be appalled if we had even more troops to spare right now, let alone if I needed them.”

 

 

For all the build-up of the past months, the Breach really didn’t put up much of a fight. Even the cheers and good humour that had accompanied her on the way back down the mountain seemed stilted, born from a sense of quiet satisfaction rather than triumphant joy. Bethany did not partake in them, regardless. The next few days would show whether closing the Breach had put an end to the fissures that had been appearing in the Veil all over Thedas since its appearance. Still – and this, perhaps, was the true victory – it was good to see the valley and the village of Haven as they were meant to be seen: under a clear blue sky, through the faint shimmer of breath crystallising in the mountain air, and under a sun that didn’t tint everything a sickly shade of green. Something, at least, that hadn’t crumbled to ashes at her touch.

The Inquisition’s council awaited her at the entrance to the village, all done up in their uniforms. There were handshakes and smiles all around, one of Josephine’s people took some photos – Bethany wasn’t sure whether for the history books, some future press release, or just a personal collection. She didn’t have much time to ponder that, for almost immediately she was ushered into the back room of the chantry.

“Before we do anything else,” Cassandra began, “Can we be absolutely certain that the Breach won’t reopen?”

“Not categorically.” Josephine had largely been responsible for coordinating the research they had commissioned – with the other members of the council still insisting on keeping the press at arm’s length and most of the major issues with their hosting governments hammered out, she must have been bored out of her mind. “Under normal circumstances, the Veil at ground zero should heal itself over time. That is not to say it can’t be torn again, while it is still weakened. I strongly recommend that we continue to maintain a security cordon around ground zero and avoid any and all use of magic and, above all, bloodshed, within a one kilometre radius of ground zero.”

Cassandra gave a curt nod. “Noted.” She looked at Bethany, then the others. “I know there’s still a lot of work to be done until our task is completed. But the Maker led us to a great victory today. Even if for the time being no one outside this village knows what happened, everyone within hundreds of kilometres now knows that the Inquisition is here to serve, and that we get the job done. I think we’ve earned a bit of pride today.”

Someone chuckled. Bethany didn’t. Ella was still dead because of her, and they were still no closer to finding out who was behind the Conclave attack. The latter bit, she pointed out to the others.

“True enough,” Cullen agreed with a frown. “But with the Breach gone, we can shift resources. Maybe even relocate, we’ve long outgrown Haven.”

Enthusiastically, Josephine nodded. “Oh, definitely. In fact, I’ve already been reaching out feelers in Val Royeaux, the Sansretour bank is open to selling their skyscraper on the Rue de Montsalvat …”

“One thing at a time. For now, let’s focus on what Hawke and Dr Pavus mentioned at their debriefing: the assassinations of Empress Celene and Calpernia Liberata.”

“Hawke said that, uh, future Leliana called her Protoarchon Calpernia,” Cullen pointed out. “The election isn’t for several weeks. So we’ve got a window in which we can expect the assassination attempt to happen.”

“ _If_ it will happen,” Leliana cautioned. “Calpernia is behind in all the recent polling, and I’ve seen an internal report from the MEAS that her opponents are planning to make sure the final count reflects that. We cannot assume that our source was trustworthy, or that her testimony is relevant to our timeline.”

Cassandra gave her a sideways glance. “That _source_ is you. Of course it’s trustworthy.”

“I resent that accusation. I mistrust me, and so should you. Regardless, I agree with Cullen that this is something worth looking into. I’m more concerned about the other assassination – the Empress’s.”

“True. Celene’s death would put Gaspard in charge by default, and he’s anything but a stabilising influence.”

“Gaspard is someone we can talk to,” Cullen objected. “More importantly, someone who could support us. Unlike his cousin, he doesn’t feel bound by the National Assembly. And he’d need allies to hold on to the throne, a couple of quick and shiny policy successes – we could provide him with both in return for his aid.”

“I don’t think our mission of restoring order would be served all that well by aiding and abetting a usurpation and military coup d’état,” Josephine dryly pointed out. “Besides, according to Hawke, this line of events will lead to thaumic war. I daresay we should have an eye towards avoiding that outcome.” She tapped her tablet against the table to underscore her next point. “Regardless, this debate is academic until we have some concrete evidence. I can’t exactly ring up the Empress and tell her to watch her back against an unknown assassin on an unspecified date, because time travellers told us so.”

“No, but we’d all love to watch you try.”

Cassandra ignored the jibe. “Then you should work with Leliana on this. We need more information.”

“Agreed. I will make some overtures towards Celene’s government, hopefully without making Gaspard’s people doubt the sincerity of our commitment to neutrality. I’ll also look into that tower on Rue de Montsalvat. No offense, but I’m sick and tired of everyone having to walk through my office to get here.”

“Well, no kill like overkill …”

Leliana smirked. “Be that as it may,” she smoothly said, “While we’re looking into Celene, we can still do something about Calpernia. We need to deal with the Imperium anyhow, get them on board with wiping out those Venatori cultists.”

“By your tone, I imagine you’ve already got something lined up.”

“The Minrathous International Security Conference begins in three weeks. For those of you not in the know, that’s an annual meeting of top-level politicos, intelligence people and security theorists from around Thedas. I’ve called up some old contacts in Orlesian intelligence to get us an invitation.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Not bad. And Calpernia will be there?”

“Right. She’s scheduled to speak, in fact – she’s trying to boost her foreign policy credentials before the election. More importantly, Archon Radonis will be there, too.”

“Great. When are you going?”

Leliana grimaced. “That’s the thing. You see, there’s a no-fly list …”

“What on earth did you do to get on a no-fly list?”

“Questions like that, Cassandra, are why you’re the Right and I’m the Left Hand. Suffice it to say I’d be arrested the instant our plane landed in Minrathous. No, I was thinking Josie should go. Take Hawke, introduce her to some of the foreign heads of state.”

“Sounds good to me.” Cassandra looked in her direction. “You’ve been quiet so far, Herald. What do you think?”

Bethany blushed a little, she had not been entirely attentive. “Uh, sure. I can tag along. I’ll … try not to step on anyone’s feet.”

“No worries, you’ll do fine.” Josephine cleared her throat. “I’ve got a couple of reports I’d like you all to read for our next meeting – we’re still having some difficulty getting tax exemptions on our Orlesian operations, so I’d like you to bear that in mind for your planning. But apart from that, I think we’ve all earned ourselves the afternoon off.”

Cassandra stepped forward. “There is one more thing.” A pregnant cause as her eyes scanned the room. “The murders last night. We need to make sure there’s no repeat of that tonight.”

Bethany glanced at Cullen. He was studiously avoiding the Seeker’s gaze, but she supposed he didn’t have the look of someone about to tender his resignation about them. “I have people working on it. I’ve put Knight Lieutenant Trevelyan in charge of the investigation into the murders, leading a team of ex-MCIS agents and military police. As for … as for tonight, I have ordered additional personnel from our other bases to maintain discipline here in Haven and at Bexley AB.”

“No offense, Cullen, but that doesn’t sound like much,” Josephine pointed out. “I mean, surely there were officers present last night, and that didn’t help. Wouldn’t it be wiser to separate mages and templars, at least for the time being?”

The commander shook his head. “I would advise against that. Separating them won’t do us any good in the long term. If we’re going to be leading the way on reconciliation, we need to do so by building esprit de corps.”

“In other words, there’s no way to guarantee there won’t be more attacks.”

“Without locking people up in their camps? No. One can never be one hundred per cent certain, but we’re doing everything in our power …”

Leliana interrupted. Sharply. “Clearly, that’s not enough – as last night showed. If you can’t keep your people in line, I will.”

One might have heard – analogies escaped her as the room went silent, agape with horror. “You can’t be serious,” Josephine exclaimed once she had gathered herself. “No. No, that’s not how we do things.”

“Perhaps we should start doing them that way, then. It certainly can’t get any worse than …” An explosion shook the walls of the chantry. Small chunks of plaster rained from the ceiling onto the map table. Once the ringing in their ears had subsided, Leliana added: “Forget I said anything.”

Then, they were out of the door.

The smoke and screams quickly led them to the explosion’s epicentre, but Bethany could tell what had happened long before they reached it. The air was crackling with magic, not the Breach’s – the dark, oppressive power one could sense wherever blood had been shed.

In the town’s centre, just outside the police station where Leliana’s people were based, the smoking husk of a small saloon car awaited them. Windows in the surrounding buildings had been blown out by the blast. Three, no, four people lay on the ground, some writhing in pain, some not moving at all. Once again, blood tainted the snow. A small crowd was gathering, disorderly and panicky, making it difficult for the Inquisition soldiers approaching from the police station to get through.

“Make a hole!” Cullen shouted as they approached. “Clear a path, get those wounded to safety!” Josephine’s aide, the huge ox- _Qunari_ mage Bethany had met the day of the Conclave attack forced her way to them. The crowd parted before her like the waves of the Minanter before Darinius the Dreamer. “Sitrep!” Cullen barked at her and she immediately straightened. “There was a small explosion, ser,” she calmly reported. “I have called for reinforcements to secure the scene with all celerity.”

“Did you see anyone? Anything suspicious?”

“Dammit, get a medic over here! You there, give me that sash! Herald, come here, this woman could do with a healing spell!”

“No, commander. The car has been parked here most of the morning."

Sharply, Cullen nodded. “Grab some soldiers and clear the area of gawkers. There could be another bomb.”

Finally, Bethany managed to shake herself from her stupor and she hastened to the side of the woman Cassandra had indicated. A civilian, judging by what remained of her clothes, her features almost unrecognisable beneath burnt flesh and soot. She was still breathing, at least – and sobbing in pain. Almost at once, she could tell that her healing spells would do no good. Even a master healer like Anders would have been hard-pressed to heal the intense burns that seemed to cover half her body, or remove the shrapnel of glass and red-hot metal that had propelled itself deep into her flesh. The best she could do, she reasoned, was to remove some of the larger pieces of shrapnel and close the wounds they had dealt to slow the woman’s bleeding, and even that cost her the greater part of her mana. A professional would have to do the rest.

By the time she was done and turned to the next victim, reinforcements had arrived. The crowd was pushed back a few metres and the area between the police station and the shop opposite it cleared. A medic pushed her aside. She cast a look around; behind her, two soldiers closed a body bag around the woman with the burns. First Ella, now this. Whoever was behind this, whatever for they had murdered those people, she could not shake the feeling that this was another consequence of the mistake she’d made.

She re-joined the others, who were whispering among themselves. “… need to get a bomb disposal team on-site. Sniffer dogs. We’ve no idea how many more devices there are around town …”

“That might prove difficult. The nearest bomb disposal unit is probably based in Highever these days, we’d have to go through the Fereldan government and have them flown in. Maybe there’s a mabari who could sniff out explosives somewhere in town but …”

“Maybes won’t cut it. I’ll order a curfew.”

“We can’t do that, Leli, you know we can’t. We’re still in Ferelden and we can’t simply impose martial law on …”

“She’s got a point. We already administrate quite a large part of the Redcliffe Hinterlands, taking charge here would be nothing new. You were right, Josephine. I’ll call up reinforcements from Bexley and order mages and templars confined to separate camps for the time being.”

“And what if there’s another bomb?” Bethany asked. “If everyone’s gathered in one place …”

“We can control access to the camps. For now – we need to figure out who’s behind this, and fast.”

Shifting, Bethany looked around. The soldiers had already begun clearing the scene, with three body bags neatly lined up by the entrance to the police station. No one had investigated the scene as even Kirkwall’s ramshackle guard had done in such cases. It would be difficult to draw any information from the scene of the attack. A thought sprung to mind. “I suppose we should be glad there weren’t more casualties. If the bomb had gone off outside one of the camps, or outside one of our headquarters, we’d be looking at scores of casualties now.”

Leliana frowned. “That is a good point. Why _didn’t_ they target one of those places? This was not a spontaneous attack, that much is clear. Maybe something went wrong.”

“We won’t know until we can look over the security footage from the police station. In the meantime, I suggest you guys get back to work. We can talk about … that other matter … later.” Cullen glanced at her. “Want to have another quick look over the crime scene, Hawke? For old times’ sake.”

She gave a mirthless smirk. “Can’t hurt. Much.” At the very least, she’d be able to tell if magic had been used – she doubted her misbegotten healing spells had left much of a footprint.

Leliana seemed poised to say something else, but Cassandra gave them a severe nod, took the bard’s arm and half-guided, half-dragged her away, followed by Josephine. _She’s not going to let this drop_ , Bethany realised, glancing at Cullen. He’d voted with her on the mage-templar issue, ill-advised as that had turned out to be, and her gut told her there was potential there. Leliana, clearly, had decided that the Inquisition’s current path wasn’t going to cut it, and would work to implement her own vision for it. No matter her own reservations about dictating Inquisition policy – as a mage, as a political naïf, as a fucked-up mess of a human being – she could not stand idly by while Leliana reshaped the Inquisition to her liking. Not if she could prevent it.

If Cullen remained on the council, him and herself would form an opposition to Leliana’s policies, and they’d only need to convince either Josephine or Cassandra to support them. Suppose she presented her own resignation? That would rest on the assumption that the council couldn’t do without the supposed Herald of Andraste, or rather her glowy hand, but it could just as easily backfire.

“You coming or not?” Cullen called after her.

Pulling herself together, she turned to smile at him. “Sorry. Lemme have a look around.” Bethany warily eyed the car. It was still smoking, now with a sickening stench of burning rubber. Whatever flames there were, they must be hidden on the inside of the carcass. The explosion had made short work of it. Careful not to get too close to the hot metal, she walked around it, tied to unweave the Veil and looked for traces of magic.

The theory behind the young science of veluscopy was simple: magic, when one got right down to it, was nothing more than manipulating the Veil to draw energy from the Fade and in a very limited sense override the laws of Reality. Most mages never thought of it that way, of course, and would be greatly disturbed by the suggestion that every spell they cast weakened the barrier between Fade and Reality. In truth, it wasn’t quite so simple: the Veil had a remarkable capability of restoring itself, smoothing out wrinkles, so to speak, and was far stronger than the name led one to believe. Even so, spells left their traces, and from the particulars of the disturbance – the way the fibres of the weave had been moved aside or torn – a skilled veluscoper could tell a great deal.

In practise, it wasn’t quite so simple. Most spells were highly technical, optimised for maximum effect for minimum mana. Often, that meant thinking outside the box. Sure, you could lift an object telepathically – but often it was just so much more efficient to simply lower its density below that of air, or locally override the gravitational constant of the planet, or any one of another half dozen methods. In other words, veluscopy could tell you where mana had been drawn and how it had been applied, but not always what, exactly, the spell had actually _done_ with it.

As it turned out, however, Bethany couldn’t find the slightest trace of directed magic in the immediate vicinity. A pervasive fog of crackling energy seemed to lie over the crime scene, obscuring the mesh of the Veil. How odd: only three people had died here, a few more had been wounded. Yet the disturbance she felt was stronger than that, almost closer to how the Temple of Sacred Ashes had felt after the attack than to a ‘normal’ murder scene. It was also more diffuse, not nearly as localised as she would have expected but spread in the Veil like a blanket of new snow.

She walked around the car to look for clues. Something crunched beneath her boots – for a moment she thought it the snow, but it had melted and turned to slush around the car. She looked down. The ground ahead of her was littered by tiny shards of glass; what little of the car’s side windows had escaped the blast. She leant over to pick up one of the larger ones, perhaps the size of her thumb, careful not to cut itself. Rather than being perfectly clear, or even covered in soot, it had a faint pinkish tint. Blood? What with all the mysterious interference, she couldn’t make out any residual power, except – her fingers prickled, burned, on the glass. This tiny little shard was coated in magic. Bethany dropped it like a hot coal, took a few steps back. “Cullen!” she called out. “Can you feel this?”

The ex-templar came up to her side, reached for the shard without touching it, and sprung back as if a viper had bit him. “I can, blight it. Step back, Hawke.”

“It’s too late for that. It’s red lyrium dust, Cullen. The bomb was dirty. This must be spread all over town by now.” Her eyes widened. What about the medics, the soldiers that had cleared the bodies from the area, all the gawkers? Even small quantities of unrefined lyrium dust could be harmful to humans, even lethal. And who could say what the red stuff would do?

“We should get inside. Quarantine the town.” Already, he grabbed her by the arm and quickly led her inside the adjoining police station. A couple of Leliana’s agents were guarding the door, clearly made nervous by the bombing, but waved them through as they entered. The metal detector beeped violently as they passed through, but was ignored. “You there, lieutenant! Seal the doors and windows. Nothing comes in or out without my express permission. Hawke, take off your boots; they’re contaminated.” As she complied, he turned back to the lieutenant he’d addressed, who was now watching them from wide, fearful eyes. “We have a thaumo-chemical hazard situation. Give out a general alert to all forces in Haven, have them seal off the town and get us a clean-up crew. Is there somewhere we can contact the others in the chantry?”

When the lieutenant finally managed to reply, there was a stutter in her voice. “There’s a – there’s a briefing room with a secure, secure line upstairs. It’s – it’s the second door on the right off the stairs.”

“Thank you. Have our boots decontaminated, but be careful not to get any of the stuff on your skin.”

“Y-yes, ser.”

They made their way upstairs, leaving behind some very confused Inquisition agents. “How serious is this?” Bethany asked as they stepped into a large briefing room; an oval redwood table lined by leather-backed chairs with a screen and a whiteboard on the wall. “Have you ever experienced something like this before?”

“Just once, sort of. During the … clean-up of the Gallows in Kirkwall, after Meredith’s death. Once the fires died down a bit, we – that is, the relief troops from the other Accord states – sent in specialists in hazmat gear to rinse whatever remained with sulfuric acid, and then disposed of that in the usual manner. Thing is, we’ve no idea if that did it. A normal lyrium spill, yeah, that would have been enough. But the Gallows still aren’t habitable. They did experiments with plants, and within days they all …”

Cullen broke off when a high scratching noise from the town-wide PA system shook the windows of the briefing room. “ _Safeguard, safeguard, safeguard. This is a general alert to all forces presently at Hector Quest. There has been a confirmed PINNACLE BROKEN ARROW outside Ravenloft. I repeat, we have a confirmed PINNACLE BROKEN ARROW. All personnel are advised to take appropriate precautions. Section leaders are to move to emergency command channels. Civilians are ordered to stay indoors and seal all doors and windows. Repeat, safeguard, safeguard, safeguard …_ ”

They tore themselves off the broadcast. “You see a phone anywhere?”

“A landline? There, by the fern.”

“Thanks.” He stripped off his gloves and punched a couple of numbers into the phone – one of Leliana’s earliest acts as ‘head of IT’ had been to create secure communication networks between the Inquisition’s main buildings. They had all been encouraged to use those specially-protected landlines, rather than the commercial mobiles they had all been issued with. Bethany wasn’t quite certain whether that meant the mobiles were more or less secure than Leliana’s phones.

“Josephine, this is Cullen. I’m at – yeah, she’s with me. Are you at the chantry?” He listened for an instant, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand and hissed “she’s with Leliana” to her.

“What about Cassandra?” she hissed back with a frown. The three women had headed off towards the same direction, after all.

“Listen, Josephine, do you know where – are you sure? Beatrice Camp, alright. She’s probably stranded somewhere halfway in between; I’ll try her phone. For now, just remain calm and – alright, give me Leliana.” There was a pause. Bethany huddled closer to Cullen to make out some of the conversation. Annoyed, the ex-templar looked for the speaker button and found it.

“ _… imperative that we detain the bomber or bombers immediately and find out who’s behind this. Unrefined lyrium is hard to come by these days, they must have significant backers. Quarantining the town, was that your idea? I get what you’re trying to do, but it’s not making things any easier. Right now, we need to fly in RFA specialists to help with the decon; until then, we’re pretty much stuck. Lyrium doesn’t dissipate and remains lethally toxic for years without protective gear. The radiation might be an issue in the long term, although I’d have to take readings to see if it’s more dangerous than the Breach was. Get in touch with Dr de la Ferre. Perhaps the elf, Solas, or the Tevinter might have some insight, as well. I’ll try to find Warden Blackwall; his power armour should protect him from the lyrium. Other than that, we’re under siege, and I suggest people get comfortable in whatever buildings they’re bunkered down until Ferelden can send decon teams._ ”

“Hang on, hang on,” Cullen interrupted, finally getting a word in. “How do you even know all this?”

Bethany couldn’t tell over the somewhat crackling connection if the noise Leliana made in reply was a sneer or a chuckle. “ _I’ll remind you that I am, a) a decorated Blight veteran and b) a graduate of the Imperial College of Bards. You ever heard of the Grinder Program?_ ”

“No?”

“ _Exactly. I’ve got more survival experience under my belt than you and all your people put together, pretty boy, and don’t you forget it._ ” Her tone shifted to a more conciliatory note. “ _More presently, you need to put your forces on high alert. Find some of my people and have them run SIGINT checks of our perimeter. I fully expect a follow-up attack at this point._ ”

“There’s nothing we can do about that. I’d need to get my people out onto the streets, expose them to the lyrium. There’s a westerly breeze; most of the town and the camps will be covered in the red stuff by now.”

“ _Chance it, if you have to. They’re expendable. Nightingale out._ ” Before Cullen had a chance to reply and make his indignation at that suggestion heard, Leliana hung up and the dial tone echoed through the small briefing room.

“Typical,” Cullen murmured after a moment and hung up. “I hate that she’s right, though.”

“Our people are not expendable,” Bethany protested, and was surprised at how hollow those words sounded. Ella was dead, as were at least five others, and no one seemed to care. Just as no one had seemed to care when they had murdered Lance Serjeant Avery.  

The ex-templar looked up at her, seeming somewhat bemused, as if she’d only just entered the room. “No, of course not. But she’s right about a follow-up attack. A car bomb to get people off the streets, isolate us and sow confusion, then the main strike. It makes perfect sense, and I did exactly what they wanted, damn it.”

“We don’t even know who ‘they’ are, or if they even exist,” she objected. “This might just be one of those looney Breach cultists. They must be mad that we killed their god this morning.”

“With red lyrium at their disposal? I doubt it. They’re annoying, but mostly harmless. Could be renegade templars or mages. Could be Tevinter or the Qunari. Maybe we pissed off the Carta, who knows. I suppose it’s too early to make accusations.”

“Let’s get to work then. You phone Blackwall and tell him to get his arse in steel and I’ll see if I can convince Leliana’s goons to work their black magic.”

“Poor choice of word, right there. I’m on it.”

Bethany left him alone to make his calls. The main office lay just off the conference room. There was no guard at the door, but  when she entered she was stopped by a middle-aged elf in a dark suit. “Excuse me, ma’am, does Lady Nightingale know you’re in here?”

She gave him an offish glance. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve got an emergency going on.”

“And I’ve got highly classified material on half of those screens. I can’t let you in here without approval.”

Bethany frowned. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got clearance. I mean, I’ve been here before without any problems. I’m the – I’m the blasted Herald of Andraste, damn it.”

“Regardless, ma’am, without Lady …”

Another agent stepped up to them – a dwarf with a short, shaggy beard and a shaven head decorated with extensive tattoos. “If word got out that we don’t serve at the pleasure of this young lady, half our staff would work out, Tariel. Get back to work.”

The elf was caught somewhere in between a glower and a swallow. He settled on a “yes, ser.” The dwarf reached out a fleshy hand for her to shake. “Cadash,” he said, and it took her a moment to realise that was his name. “We met before. How can the IT department be of service?”

“Ah, right. I just got off the phone with Leliana. She wants you to watch our perimeter, keep an eye out for a follow-up attack.”

He nodded. “On it. Come.” Without a further word he led her through the main room – Bethany couldn’t resist the temptation to sneak a few glances at the classified material Tariel had mentioned, though she couldn’t interpret most of what she saw – and to a small room adjoining Leliana’s. office. Like the conference room she’d just left, this one was also dominated by a long, oval table, but she suspected that the screens lined up at its head were more important. A tingle ran down her spine; Bethany felt reminded of pictures she had seen in the news or in movies, of the war room in Val Royeaux’ imperial palace.

Cadash opened a laptop and a couple of clicks later the screens sprung to life, each showing a different picture. The dwarf pointed at the first. “Satellite imagery,” he explained. “We’ve rented one unit from the Accord’s _Bellarmine_ network. Put it in geostationary orbit above Haven. Bloody expensive business. One image every minute, at 13cm resolution. Don’t really have the analysts to do shit with them, so it’s a bit of a waste.”

“I see. What am I looking at here?” She could vaguely make out some dark shapes in a grey-ish field that might have been the town, but Bethany had no idea what she was looking for.

The dwarf grabbed a laser pointer and roughly circled the collection of dark shapes. “Here’s Haven.” Cadash pointed at a number of slightly brighter shapes surrounding the town. Snow-covered roofs, apparently. “Observation posts. Snowed in, obviously. Anything out there, these guys radio us first,” he explained before trailing off to inspect the image in more detail. Clearly, it was as new to him as it was to her. Finally, he zoomed in on one corner of the image. There didn’t seem to be anything extraordinary about it.

“There, see that?” Cadash circled a couple of dark spots, some barely larger than a pixel, with his laser pointer. They were arranged in a sort of wiggly line.

“Can you, like, enhance it?”

“Who do you think I am, Jeannette la Bonde?” He hummed lowly to himself. “Could be people.”

“Or dust on the camera,” she objected.

“We’ll see. Lemme just bring up a more recent picture … here we go.”

Even knowing what to look for, Bethany didn’t see anything. “Can you zoom in again?”

“No need for that. Look, there they are.”

She followed his pointer and stepped closer to the screen, much closer. Indeed, there were the dots again. “They’ve moved.”

“Hmm.” Without a reply, Cadash set down his pointer and reached for one of the corded phones set into the conference table. He started to punch in a number, then stopped. There was no dial tone. “Line’s dead.”

Muttering a curse beneath her breath, Bethany pulled out her mobile phone. Secure line or not, it’d have to work. Yet again she was disappointed when the phone failed to recognise a carrier. This was unusual – despite the mountainous location, the popular pilgrimage site of Haven tended to have excellent reception. “Do you think someone might be sabotaging us?” she finally asked Cadash.

“Not even a doubt. Radio won’t be working, either. Still got the PA system left.”

“That’s not enough. We need to warn our perimeter watch posts, right? Make sure none of those people get anywhere close the town. Well, the watch posts are too far for the PA system; I need to go there myself. It’s watch posts Reville, Serault and Thérése, correct?”

“Gonna be near one of those,” the dwarf confirmed, raising an eyebrow. She gave him a quick nod, then turned on her heel, laying a hand on her staff. “Good luck!” Cadash called after her as she sped out of Leliana’s kingdom without looking back.

Cullen came to meet her by the entrance. “Phone lines are dead. They’re jamming us.”

“I know,” she said, breathlessly, slipping on her coat. “You were right, we’ve got incoming to the south-west. At least half a dozen people, maybe more. I’m going out there, try to find the others.”

“The hell you are. How long were you out there, anyway, trying to heal the wounded – five minutes? Ten? There’s gotta be at least a seventy rems in the air out there. More than enough to get radiation poisoning, or worse. You’ve already touched the lyrium, you shouldn’t expose yourself even more. I’ll go.”

“Out of the question. The Inquisition can’t afford to lose – to have both of us injured. Besides, we need you to work on organising a response. I’ll try to make it to Watch Post Serault before the attackers reach them; I should be able to give a visual signal to Reville and Thérése from there.” Turning towards the door, she buttoned up her cloak and raised its collar. Then, on a sudden intuition, she removed the red silk sash looped around her waist and draped it round her neck, so that it covered her mouth and nose. “I’m going.”

Cullen grabbed her arm. “Hawke, you know I can’t allow you to endanger yourself like that. If you try to leave …”

He trailed off, caught by her glare, and she shook her arm free. “Then what? You’ll Smite me?”

His eyes went wide and he retreated. Her words had struck a blow, and she immediately regretted them. Awkwardly, she tried to say something, but her mouth opened and closed and no words came out. Then, she turned and walked out the door.

Icy sleet greeted her, whipping against her face. She pulled the sash over her face higher, tried to keep her head down, but still her eyes started tearing up almost instantly. The sludge beneath her feet had been transformed to mud and half-frozen puddles squishing under her boots. And all, she realised with trepidation, was tainted with miniscule particles of red lyrium, highly toxic even in the smallest quantities … she shuddered, looked around. The streets were deserted. Grateful for small mercies, Bethany stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her coats and stomped off in what she was pretty sure was the right direction.

She made her way down High Street, past deserted storefronts and brightly-lit homes. Alone for the first time since she had been summoned to see – see Ella’s corpse this morning, she tried to arrange her thoughts. That morning – she could barely recall that morning, even though it had just been a couple of hours ago. Indeed, she still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. When she had stood over Ella’s cold and lifeless body … there had been nothing. She hadn’t cried, as she had over father, over Carver, lately over mother. She hadn’t even been angry, hadn’t sworn revenge or vowed to find her killer. If she was honest with herself – and in the face of the bitterly cold sleet raining down on her, it was hard not to – she hadn’t felt anything at all. Resignation, maybe, a distinct sense of unease. Grief? No.

And yet, Ella had been her friend, she knew that for a fact. They’d been together almost every day for years; they’d worked and eaten, argued and gossiped together. They had been _friends._ What kind of monster felt nothing at the death of a friend?

“Who goes there?”

Almost instinctively, her hand went for the staff at her side, only to realise that she had it clipped to her belt, underneath the coat. Then, she relaxed; the unnaturally broad, hulking shape that had appeared from the snow in front of her could only belong to one person in this town. “It’s me, Warden Blackwall. What are you doing out here?”

“Keeping an eye on the perimeter.” The warden’s voice filtered through his helmet with a metallic twang to it. “My suit should protect me against the lyrium, but … you really shouldn’t be out here.”

She ignored the comment. He was right, of course; small though the bomb had been, there was a good chance the wind had spread red lyrium particles throughout the town. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her. “I need to get to watch post Serault,” she explained. “Leliana’s people say it’s where the attackers are headed.”

“Then we need to get there first.” He looked out over the valley. What with the snowstorm, Bethany could barely see past her outstretched hand, but she was fairly certain which direction they had to go in. “Follow me, Lady Herald. Try to walk in my footsteps; my suit should compress the snow.”

In truth, what Blackwall’s heavy steel boots seemed to do was rather closer to _melting_ the snow than compressing it, so that by the time Bethany thought better of it, her shoes and socks were soaked in icy water. Soon, her feet starting burning like fire, before going numb entirely. Bethany grit her teeth and marched on.

She would, later on, not be able to tell whether they had walked for an hour, a day, or just ten minutes. The strongly falling snow seemed to kill all perception of time, turning the world into a monotonous world of white. She could see so little it came as a surprise to her when Blackwall finally halted in front of her and drew some sort of gun that would probably have qualified as a full-sized rifle in an unarmoured person’s hand from a long holster at his hip. “Someone should have met us by now,” he muttered through the speakers of his helmet.

“Maybe they didn’t see us, considered that?” She had crossed her arms tightly across her chest to plunge her hands deep into her armpits for a bit of warmth. The gloves didn’t help much, and Bethany was cursing herself for having left the warm, heavy army surplus boots the Inquisition had issued her for combat at the hostel. What with the road up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes having been cleared for cars weeks ago, she hadn’t even considered the possibility of having to go hiking through the snow when getting dressed that morning.

“With communications down, they should be on full alert. Conditions like this, that means thermal goggles. My armour gets pretty damn hot, it should show up nicely against the snow. No, something’s wrong.”

Stiff-fingered, Bethany reached for her staff. Still underneath the coat, right. No way was she taking that off right now. “Let’s have a look.”

Watch post Serault was somewhat more fortified than the other watch posts ringing the village of Haven, on account of being a repurposed alpine hut. Here, far from the disruption of village traffic, a thick layer of snow had already settled on the roof of the low, wooden blockhouse, and the benches and tables that in the summer provided a welcome rest for mountaineers, hikers and pilgrims alike were barely distinguishable under their snow blanket. Bethany had been here, once, in the weeks leading up to the Conclave, with some acquaintances from Redcliffe eager to get away from the Temple and the omnipresent templars, functionaries and diplomats. There were some prominent new additions to the hut:  a complicated-looking and nearly snow-free array of cameras, satellite dishes and other instruments on the roof, a small metal observation tower next to the hut, quite unlike the hunters’ perches dotting the woods around here …

Not a soul was in sight. The hut’s small, milky windows were dark. “I don’t like this. Let’s have a look inside.” Blackwall went first. He had to fight the door a bit on account of the snow, but it was unlocked. With a quiet twang a torch mounted to the side of his helmet lit, bathing the interior of the hut in a pale white light …

“Demon!” He brought up his rifle and fired. Bethany could barely see past his hulking figure, let alone fight, so she stuck to the wall of the hut and tried to shield her eardrums from the roar of the Warden’s gun. _Rat-tat-tat-ta …_ He only stopped firing once his magazine was empty. Then, he said: “Come in here, Herald. You ought to see this.”

Hesitantly, she followed him inside the hut. She almost slipped on empty shell casings, looked for a light switch and found one. When the bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling flickered on, she saw her worst expectations confirmed. The demon had made short work of the garrison, and its remains mixed with those of the Inquisition agents on floorboards slick with blood. A sickening smell lay in the thick, warm air. So much for drying her feet.

“How’d the demon get here?” Bethany wondered. “There’s no rift nearby, no disturbance in the Fade …” She glanced around, tried to focus. No sign of mages, no staves … with a quick gesture, she drew a simple forensic spell in the air. The Veil shifted slightly under her analysis, stretched, in a sense, to make it easier to read. Nope, noting. Apart from the disturbance caused by the bloodshed, there was no sign of any magic having been used at all. “They didn’t summon it themselves.”

“In other words, we’re dealing with summoners here.”

“Summoners who build car bombs? Yikes. As if the normal variety wasn’t bad enough.” She shivered a little. Closing the door would be an option, but that would also stop the air from circulating. “Do you see a radio anywhere? We need to at least warn the other watch posts.”

“Over here.” Blackwall moved over to a small green box with a whole bunch of buttons, dials and plugs on the front. Experimentally, he tried a couple of them. The result was the same all across the spectrum: silence. “Dead.”

Bethany sighed, shifted her weight from one numb foot to the other. “Blast it … what else can we do? If they’ve got one demon, they might have more. Dozens, hundreds even. And they’ll be moving on Haven.”

“Which is still under quarantine,” Blackwall concluded, “so they aren’t ready to defend themselves. We need to get back there, mount a defence. Evacuate civilians, if possible. Any ideas?”

“One, maybe. Let me have a look outside … she paused, her hand on the door frame. “Uh, do you know Morse code? I was thinking I could use magic lights to signal something …”

“I can see what you mean, yeah. But …” They stepped outside. The path whence they had come to their left, Haven slightly farther along to the right. Behind a dense group of tall pines. The Warden sighed. “Well, looks like we’ll need to go around, after all.”

“Oh joy of joys.” She paused. What about the other watch posts? There were no footprints, even covered ones, anywhere in the snow around them. Any army that did not consist entirely of demons would have broken through in multiple places. “Alright, let’s move.” For an instant, she entertained the idea of asking Blackwall to carry her down piggy-back, then she thought better of it.

The way back down to Haven, no doubt, was faster, but also far more treacherous. Every now and then, the massive weight of Blackwall in his armour cut loose rocks beneath the snow or caused small avalanches. Bethany found it hard to keep up with him at times, although she narrowly avoided a fall on several occasions. By the time they reached the outlying houses of the village, the snowstorm had abated slightly.

The streets were as deserted as they had been before. “The chantry,” Bethany told her companion. “That’s where Leliana and Josephine are. Cullen should be with them, too. If not, we can call him from there.”

She was not mistaken. A small number of civilians and agents had found their way into the chantry – some, there since morning to give thanks for the closing of the Breach, others passerbys whom the curfew had stranded in the chantry. They were gathered in the main nave of the building. Inquisition agents and Mother Giselle’s people were parcelling out coffee. In the faint light breaking through cracks in the snow blanket covering the building’s glass ceiling, their faces looked pallid and otherworldly. Bethany pulled the mother aside. “Are the others here? The councillors, I mean.”

“In the back room.”

“Thank you, mother. Could I … if you could somehow find me fresh socks and a new pair of boots? Mine are soaked through. Uh, size seven.”

“Of course, my child. I’ll see what I can do. Give me the ones you’re wearing, I’ll put them out to dry.” Quickly, Bethany sat on a nearby pew and stripped off first her boots, then her socks. She had some difficulty with that; wet, they had shrunken slightly and clung to her skin. Once she was finally free of them, she’d have liked nothing better than to put them up on a heater and massage them until she could feel her toes again, but there was no time for that. She tried out the polished wood floor, and found she left a faint trail of water on it. Oh, well. “Thank you.”

Blackwall had stepped out of his suit of armour, which he had now parked by the chantry’s entrance. She was mildly surprised to see him not wearing the blue flight suit-like garment he normally wore when armoured up, but rather a rolled-up red plaid shirt and jeans. She had to grin, the “grizzled lumberjack” look worked. “Something funny?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, nothing. Let’s see the others.”

The ‘war room’ at the back of the chantry was packed to bursting. Besides Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen, Cassandra had found her way here, and so had Vivienne, Dorian and Solas, Varric and Sera, and a towering Qunari in an ill-fitting Llomerryn shirt she’d not met before. For an instant she wondered what he was doing here; then she recalled that Cullen had mentioned something about a deal they’d made with some sort of private military contractor, commanded by a Qunari. What was his name, Steel Ox or something? No, that sounded racist. Apart from them, however, there were all of the councillors’ aides and a number of other officers, some of whom she had worked with in the past.

And finally, there was an unholy cacophony of people shouting over each other.

Lavellan peaked up when she entered and came to meet her. “Good to see you, boss. I was wondering if I’d see you again. Nice job with the Breach, by the by. Glad we’re done with that.”

She had to chuckle. “Good thing we’ve got a new crisis coming. I was almost getting bored.”

“That’s my girl. Come.” Somehow, Lavellan cut her a path to the map table at the centre of the room, and without punching anyone, too.

All eyes turned to Bethany when she stepped up to it. “Well?” Cullen challenged. “What’s going on up there?”

She took a deep breath. “Our people at watch post Serault were massacred by a demon. A shade. We’re dealing with summoners, and they’re probably on the way here.”

Someone bolted out of the room to transmit that information, but for the most part the people in it returned to their previous chaos. “Quiet!” Cassandra shouted, trying to make herself heard. “Quiet, damn it!” If anyone even heard her, they made no sign of it. “Quiet!” the Seeker repeated over a dozen private arguments on how to proceed. “Quiet, for grace’s sake …”

She got her wish when one of the offending officers froze – literally. A thin coating of frost had come over the man’s body and yet held him entirely, finer and more precise than anything Bethany could ever have accomplished. She looked around for who might have cast the spell, and saw Madame Vivienne languidly flourishing her staff. The room had gone silent. “I simply cannot abide such inconsiderateness. Please, dear, do continue.”

The Seeker gave Vivienne a wary glance as the frozen officer slowly began to thaw. Bethany doubted any real damage had been done, but he would probably be rather more quiet in the future. Then, with a grunt, Cassandra turned to Cullen. “Commander, what do you suggest? Can we hold them off?”

“That’s not a question I can answer right now. We don’t even know who we’re dealing with, what sort of forces they have at their disposal, where they are right now … Leliana, why didn’t we have more intel? Surely a demon army should be difficult to hide on satellite imagery.”

“You’d be surprised. I’ve had an agent watching the images as they came in – at a three minute delay – and they didn’t see anything. It’s possible …”

Solas broke her off, a proud smile playing around his pencil-thin lips. “Even in corporeal form, spirits are never truly part of our reality. The eye and mind are difficult to fool without direct application of magic, but manipulating a camera that only perceives the world as a monochrome plane is simpler. A skilled mage could well have cloaked his spirits.”

The look Leliana gave him could have slain a high dragon. “Yes,” she drawled, “thank you for your wisdom. I was unaware you also had twenty years’ worth of experience in intelligence. Please, do enlighten us again.” Sarcasm done with, she returned her attention to Cullen. “Until we can get actual eyes on the enemy, we have to assume they’re there. I recommend you have your people take up defensive positions around the town until we can call for backup.”

“That’s the plan. I’ve got people seeing to it right now …” He sighed, shook his head in frustration. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see which way they’re coming from.”

“All of them?” Bethany suggested. “I mean, summoning demons isn’t easy, but once you’ve got the hang of it it’s just a matter of time. They may well outnumber us significantly.”

“True, but there can be no such thing as an army entirely of demons. You simply couldn’t control them. You need mages spread throughout the army.”

Josephine crossed her arms, confused. “But the only ones I can think of who’d have that sort of capability are the Imperium, and they wouldn’t possibly dare openly invade Ferelden like this just to attack us. Certainly not right now, with their archontal election in just a few weeks.”

“Well, what about the rebel mages? If those that turned marauders and the remaining discontents in Redcliffe joined forces …”

“I’m not seeing it. It’d be like herding drakes – there’s at least five dozen different factions right now, and they usually hate each other more than they hate the templars. There’s simply no way you could form an army out of those, unless you, say, also had a bunch of templars to keep order among them. But they’d never accept that.”

Bethany couldn’t help but concede the point. Even those mages she’d lived and worked with in Redcliffe had hardly ever agreed on anything. The closest thing they’d had to a leader had been Grand Enchanter Fiona, but she was safe at Bexley Airbase, and even she had faced considerable opposition from Anders’ more … rabid followers. She’d long stopped raising her eyebrows at hearing or reading the usual vitriol they directed at the grand enchanter.

“Who does that leave, though?” Josephine asked. “I can just about see the Qunari invading Ferelden if they thought it important enough, but they’d never summon demons to do their dirty work.”

“Hmm. How are our relations with Par Vollen, come to think of it?”

“What relations? I made some initial overtures, and they were very polite before proceeding to ignore us completely. For all intents and purposes, we don’t seem to matter to them. As for Tevinter, well, Archon Radonis has been busy campaigning for his chosen successor, Magister Aurarius. They’ve both taken the opportunity to mock us as ‘hare-brained southerners running scared at a bit of fireworks’ in their stump speeches, but what few relations we’ve had through diplomatic channels has been cordial. Pleasant, even.”

Cassandra leant forwards, over the table. “We can worry about who’s behind this later,” she pointed out. “Assuming we survive this. Now, Cullen, I’m going to have to commandeer some of your people. And vehicles, too. I’m going to evacuate the civilians in the town and take them to Bexley.”

“Bexley are overcrowded as it is. Any more people and we’re going to run into serious issues up there.”

“It’s better than having them get in the way once the fighting starts. If we form a convoy, we shouldn’t have any trouble breaking through on the B85, even if we face some opposition.”

Cullen sighed. “Alright, fair point. Take what you need. Be quick about it, though. We don’t know how much time we have.” Then, he turned to Bethany. “You should go with her, Hawke. We can’t afford to lose you.” With his voice raised, he added: “The same goes for everyone else who isn’t expendable. That includes you, Madame de la Ferre, and Josephine.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Vivienne responded instantly, without so much as batting an eye. “The demon who would kill me has yet to materialise.”

“I’m staying as well,” Bethany added, to Josephine’s vigorous nods. “If the worst should come to pass, we can always evacuate later.”

“Maker willing …” Cullen murmured, but Leliana and Cassandra both agreed with them, even as the latter already moved to leave the room. “Alright then. Get to work. Trevelyan, I want you to accompany the Seeker, help organise.”

“Yes, ser.”

“The rest of you, listen up. Our top priority is going to be to buy the civilians time to evacuate, and leave ourselves an escape route. That means we have to keep the way down to the B85 open.” With a few taps on the map table’s controls, Cullen drew up a map of Haven. “I want people here, here, and here. Bear in mind we still don’t have radio contact. We’ll set up our HQ here at the chantry and use the town’s PA system to relay orders. Reports back to command – and anything we can’t entrust to the PA system – will have to be handled by despatch runners. Is that clear? Good. Now, it’s a good thing we got back in bed with the mages and templars when we did … never thought I’d say that, but still. They’re going to be vital to fighting back, especially considering the enemy likely has mages of their own. Now, they’re going to …”

Mid-sentence, Cullen was interrupted by the telltale sounds of far-off gunshots. “They’re here,” he abruptly finished. “Everyone to your posts. Whoever they may be, keep them away from the civilians!”

Rapidly, the crowd in the war room dissolved. Bethany, too, made her way outside, though not before being stopped by Mother Giselle with fresh pairs of socks and boots. They didn’t fit all that well, but if it would mean her feet would be warm, she’d take them all the same, and happily too. Glancing out from the chantry, where the snow had not covered the sloping, tent-shaped glass roof, everything seemed in perfect order, but the sounds of gunfire continued unabated. This time, Bethany remembered to unbutton her coat and unclip her staff from her belt; she’d have to either hold it in hand or keep it in her coat pocket until she needed it.

Varric and the Qunari in the Llomerryn shirt met her by the exit. “Sunshine! Let me introduce you to my newest drinking buddy. Bull, meet Bethany Hawke, saviour of us all. Sunshine, this is The Iron Bull, from Matador International – the merc group.”

“Of course, PMC would be the more modern term to use,” the Qunari said. His voice was surprisingly pleasant, suave even; a far cry from the Qunari she’d met in Kirkwall whose only mode of communication appeared to have been grunts and monosyllabics. “But I’ve never been very concerned about words. It’s great to finally meet my boss.” He reached out a massive hand, and Bethany felt equal parts proud and guilty that she only hesitated slightly before shaking it.

“Likewise. I’m not your boss, though. Cullen is, right?”

The Qunari shrugged, causing an impressive series of geological shifts in the mountain range that was his chest. The buttons of his brightly flowered and utterly unseasonable shirt were straining under the gesture. “And you’re his boss. Oh, don’t gimme that look, it’s true. Might not be on the business card, but they all answer to me.”

She gave a faint smile. Sure, whatever he wanted to believe. “I’ll take your word for it. Shall we?”

“Just waiting for you to ask.”

It was easy enough to find some demons to kill, and soon the three of them were in position at a rudimentary defensive position some of Cullen’s people had set up outside an apothecary’s. To Bethany’s relief, there were no mages with them, or indeed any other people – both because this meant she would not have to kill yet again, and because it meant the demons were uncoordinated. Something behind their lines was pushing them down the mountains towards the town of Haven, forcing them to fight, but whatever that was did not take any further care into how they fought. Or whom. For every attack against the Inquisition’s forces, they seemed to be killing two of their own, leaving them to wipe up the remainder. Shades, wraiths, the occasional terror – nothing more powerful than that.

“Sunshine … anything about this feel off to you, too?”

She paused mid-spell and glanced over to the dwarf. “They’re holding back. Anyone capable of summoning so many demons _and_ building dirty car bombs can do way better than this.”

“Agreed,” the Iron Bull confirmed next to them, shouting over the gunfire as best he could. “If they’d really meant to surprise us, they’d have hit us with all they’ve got – these bastards are cannon fodder, nothing more!”

“Besides, it doesn’t really mesh. First we’ve got a car bomb and jammed comms, and now a massed assault by a demon army like it’s the Ancient Age again? I kinda feel like I’m back in that forgotten thaig we found again …” The dwarf dived out of cover to loose another bolt from Bianca. He really needn’t have bothered; the demons were all but ignoring them. “Whoever’s behind this is seriously schizophrenic.”

“Powerful, though,” she objected. “Getting the red lyrium for the bomb is one thing, but you need some serious magical chops to pull off this kind of thing.”

“So, Sunshine, any theories? My money’s on the Vints. No? What about you, Bull?”

Once again, the Qunari shrugged. Bethany had never been very fond of his people, but she had to admit there was something fascinating about that. Had he purposefully selected a shirt several sizes too small for him? “Fuck if I know,” he said, a gleam in his eyes. “Really haven’t the faintest idea. This is fun, isn’t it? We’ll get to meet a whole new bunch of people to kill.”

“Very uplifting that …”

It was rather surreal: soon, there was demon residue and veline matter wherever one looked, and yet they were laughing and shooting banter back and forth more than actual bullets. Bethany had been in her fair share of fights, and she’d never felt so let down by one. “This can’t be all,” she muttered, not for the first time, when Cullen gave an all-clear over the town’s PA system and ordered officers to report back to the chantry. “There’s got to be more to this.”

Her companions agreed. “If there’s one thing running with your sister taught me, it’s that there’s no such thing as a lucky break. We get back out here, we’ll be up to our neck in shit.”

“Your neck or mine?” the Qunari asked.

“Mine, but I intend to sit on your shoulders.”

They entered the chantry to find the Inquisition’s officers gathered around Cullen, who was on the phone. Sera came up to her as she entered. “Leliana here got us a satellite uplink. They’re on the phone with the army now or something.” A grin came upon the elf’s face. “I like her. Scary as fuck, but she knows her stuff.”

That pretty much summed it up, Bethany had to admit, and stepped closer to Cullen to listen in. “… appears to be under control for now. We’ve beaten back the enemy forces along our perimeter – bit of a break … yes. Yes, prime minister, that is correct. We’ve launched a convoy to evacuate the civilians to Bexley AB. Of course we understand how much your government has already done for us, but … yes, thank you. And we’ll need clean-up teams from your military before we can restore operations in Haven. Between the dirty bomb and the fighting … the Veil was already thin to begin with. … Why yes, of course we want to restore operations here. Bexley is already tasked to capacity. … Listen, prime minister, just because the Herald has closed the Breach, we’re not yet in the clear. Whoever is mounting this attack on us … yes, of course, we’re on Fereldan soil, but it’s clear you weren’t the target of this … prime minister? Prime Minister Guerrin?”

Cullen looked up at them. “He hung up on me. He actually hung up on me.”

“I told you, you should’ve let me do the talking.” Josephine tapped her tablet in contemplation. “It’s understandable, I suppose. The Inquisition has all but taken over about a quarter of his country on every level of government. With the Breach closed, we may very well find our support running dry very quickly indeed.”

“But the job is not yet done,” Bethany objected, puzzled. “Surely they must see that. Even if there weren’t still rifts all over the place, Thedas is still at war with itself. Ferelden is no exception.”

“No doubt Eamon feels confident enough at this point that he can scale down his government’s involvement. With the mages and templars more or less pacified, he’ll want to turn his efforts towards clean-up and the restoration of peace and order in Ferelden.”

“There’s a fucking demon army in his country, for crying out loud!”

“Not anymore, there isn’t. Best we can tell, there’s nothing else in the vicinity. We’re just mopping up survivors, then …” Once again, an explosion shook the chantry. By now, Cullen merely gave a resigned sigh. “Oh, never mind. Back to your posts, everyone.”

Again, they hurried outside. This time, there were no gunshots. No sounds of fighting. There wasn’t even a prickle in the Fade, not beyond what had plagued the town ever since the car bomb this morning. “What’s going on?” she asked, more to herself than to her companions, as they sprinted down high street towards their previous position. It was deserted. Even the soldiers who’d held it before had disappeared without a trace.

“Don’t ask me, Sunshine. There’s not going to be another demon army, is there? Because the last one didn’t work out so well … holy mother of Andraste, what the fuck?”

For an instant, a deep and massive shadow had come across them, blotting out the sun, and then a sudden gale of air so strong it nearly pushed them off their feet. Bethany looked up at the skies, but whatever it was, it had disappeared as suddenly as it had come. “Anyone else smell that?” the Iron Bull asked, even as Bethany was still watching the skies for whatever had flown across them. “Fire. Something’s burning.” He sniffed. “Fuck, what a stench. Like burning rubber.”

“I’m suddenly glad I’ve got the sniffles …” Sera murmured. “Can’t smell a thing. Oi, Hawke, what do you think that was?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Some kind of plane, maybe?”

“We’d have heard that. Planes are loud. This was almost like a … oh, fucking hell.”

The _thing_ had reappeared after making a wide swerve over the mountains, and the closer it came, the more Bethany had to agree with Varric. _That_ was no plane. Every now and then, it beat its pair of massive, jagged wings, approaching them at breakneck speed. And then it was upon them. Bethany got the briefest vision of a gigantic high dragon, covered head to tail in jagged, irregular black scales, its wings torn and punctured. A sickly red glow emanated from what appeared to be a gap between the scales on its chest and throat, and its eyes and maw likewise glowed red. Without even reaching out, Bethany could feel the overwhelming power coursing through this creature’s veins, and could feel the corruption tearing at the fabric of the Veil.

With a small quake, shaking loose avalanches of snow, the dragon awkwardly perched down right above them, on the hostel’s roof. The shingles beneath its paws cracked almost instantly under the weight, but it paid them no heed. Rather, it turned its massive neck down, towards them, towards Bethany. Half crawling, half descending, it lowered itself down from its perch until it was almost level with them. And approaching, in slow, measured steps that made the snow beneath its massive paws steam.

This was it, Bethany thought, unable to break eye contact with the beast as it peered at them now from its left, now from its right eye. Either looked menacing enough on its own. Soon, any moment now, it would open its jaws and either reach out to devour them whole – or perhaps in two bites for the Iron Bull – or simply dispose with them equally quickly using its magic breath.

“Quiet,” Varric whispered to her side, but he may as well have spoken to a statue. “No sudden movements. I got this, we’ve fought dragons before. Just don’t frighten it …”

“Love to hear that story,” the Iron Bull replied just as quietly. All three of them seemed frozen under the high dragon’s spell. “Guess it falls under ‘incentive to survive this shit’.”

“Less jokes, more saving all our lives, please,” Sera hissed.

Bethany closed her eyes. With all her magic, there was no way she could withstand the wrath of a grown high dragon. She’d never believed the stories that her sister had killed one, fanciful as they were. She could feel the beast’s scalding breath on her face; it stank of rotten flesh and char. Stay calm, Bethany, she told herself. You’ve lived this long by others’ grace, the least you could do is go out with a bit of dignity …

The dragon withdrew.

Aghast, her eyes fluttered open, and she was thrown back into the snow when it flapped its wings and took off, roaring hoarsely. “What the …” Her eyes widened as she realised what was going to happen. “Move! Everyone get to cover!”

She bolted just in time to avoid the fireball that exploded mere centimetres from where she had stood just a second before. Stumbling blindly towards what she assumed was the apothecary’s shop, she dodged another bout of flame – red as blood, an appallingly underoccupied part of her mind noted, red like lyrium – before stumbling over something soft she couldn’t quite identify and falling flat on her face. She scrambled to her feet, tried to turn around –

She could not move a limb. Slowly, like a puppet on strings, she was pulled to her feet. Bethany could feel the magic burning on her skin – old, diffuse magic, more thought than science. It felt odd, bizarre, even – like a sort of tough gel enveloping her body and tightly keeping her limbs from moving. No sensible mage would use something like this when one could far more easily obstruct a handful of nerves.

A voice behind her – deep, cut and broken on shards of obsidian – spoke: “Enough.” _She knew that voice._ The grasp on her body was released without further warning, and she fell to her knees. Her staff, where was it? Had she dropped … still on her knees, she whirled around, and looked in the face of a dead man. “Pretender. You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more …”

Bethany wanted nothing more than to seek Varric’s eyes for reassurance and confirmation – confirmation that, yes, the creature before her was indeed who she thought it was. But she could not avert her eyes. It had the same twisted shape, that unholy mockery of all that was human, that here and there seemed to sketch out a person’s face, a person’s body, only to derail horrifically into the realm of the Blighted, the corrupted, the eldritch. Her eyes wide and her lips scarcely moving, she whispered: “Corypheus …”

The creature looked little different from when they had fought – when they had _killed_ him at the abandoned Warden prison in the Vinmark Mountains. His tattered rags had been replaced by, if not actual clothing, then at least new rags, and he carried itself differently. He seemed … smaller. Where his eyes had once been milky, never quite looking at you, but always at some goal far in the distance or even outside this world, they were now small, furtive and suspicious. The jagged protrusions from his face were now gleaming like cut and polished obsidian, not covered in the dust of a millennium’s sleep.

And he was upright, moving, speaking.

Finally, Bethany managed to tear off her eyes and glance over at Varric, held in a similar predicament and manifestly finding himself similarly surprised. “But … you’re dead!” Bethany half-whispered, half-shrieked, a tremor in her voice. “We killed you. We … _my sister_ bloody well killed you! How are you still alive?!”

She could not tell if the expression on Corypheus’ face was a scornful snarl or not. “How little you know … ah, I remember you. The foolhardy little mageling who thought her pitiful magics could withstand Him who has defeated time and death – the _Will_ that is Corypheus!”

He spread his bony arms. “No matter. You _will_ kneel, one way or the other.” He stepped towards her and, with scissor-like claws, rightly gripped her left arm by the wrist. He was tall, she noticed even as she cried out in pain. When he effortlessly dragged her up to his eye level, her feet were dangling in the air. Bethany tried to lash out as best she could, kick the cursed spawn – anything! – but her limbs would not react. Neither would her magic. She was all but paralysed; all she could do was watch from wide fearful eyes as Corypheus touched the tip of his left index finger’s razor-sharp claw to her palm, where the Mark was located. “How quaint.” With a languid drag of his fingernail he cut through her leather glove, then ripped it off to expose her bare palm. And suddenly, there was something in his hand that had not been before – a metal sphere about the size of a football, perfectly smooth except for two bands of ridges encircling it. It gave off a bronze sheen by the light of the dragon’s fire – with a mere flick of his wrist, Corypheus cast a spell, and all of a sudden the sphere was enveloped in wafts of crimson magic, gathering for whatever he intended to do.

“I am here for the anchor. The process of removing it begin … now.”

Her shoulder was burning under the weight of her body, but suddenly it seemed negligible next to the sharp jolt of pain which now shot through her arm as the Mark in Bethany’s hand lit up like a torch. Unable to scream, she let out a whimper. Where was Varric, where had the others gone? She could not see nor hear them – she could feel magic rushing through her Mark, hot and untamed, dragging at her arm – escaping towards the bronze orb – her skin seemed to split open, though it did not, her bones fracture in three dozen different places, though it was fine, her brain burst in a cavalcade of disharmonic sounds and clashing colours … Bethany opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Corypheus let go of her hand and she fell, hard, her legs collapsing under her until all she could do was cower in the snow weeping with pain.

“It is your own fault, ‘Herald’. You interrupted a ritual years in the planning – and instead of dying, you stole its purpose. I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as touched – what you flail at rifts … I crafted to assault the Heavens.” He beheld the sphere in his hand with scorn. “And _you_ used the anchor to undo my work! The gall …”

Bethany shivered, convulsing in the snow, trying not to retch. “No …” she whispered, “that’s a lie …” With considerable effort, she tried to push herself up to her feet, failed, and tried again. This time, she succeeded, stumbled backwards and reached for the apothecary’s wall for support. Clenching her teeth to keep herself from screaming, Bethany glared up at Corypheus, and ground forth the words: “This mark, this … power … Andraste gave them to me. Chose me.” Convulsing again as the relentless exodus of magic continued unabated – longer than she’d ever thought possible, though she could not for the life of her quantify the energy pulsing through her palm; was this going to kill her? Make her tranquil? No matter – Bethany shuddered, struggled for balance. “Now I know … why. You … you’re nothing but evil itself. A-and … by Andraste’s grace … I’ll put you down. For good.”

The expression on the monster’s face might have been a smirk, or it might not. She could not tell, nor did she care. “Foolish child. Pray to your goddess if you must, pray all you like. _Pray_ that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of  the gods and it was … empty.” Once again, Corypheus glanced at the sphere in his hand. “Cease your mewling, slave, the end is almost …” He halted. “This cannot …”

She did not grant him end that sentence. With what little mana yet remained in her drained body – her own magic, not the alien, no, _divine_ power of the mark – she reached out her left hand, still bound to the orb by his abominable spell, formed her thoughts to a spear point, and commanded the very fabric of reality: _push._

Bethany was thrown back, hit in the chest by all the force of a speeding truck, as around her walls crumbled, the Veil rippled with power, and the world exploded.

 

 

She awoke in darkness, covered by something heavy, and freezing cold. The Veil was fainter, looser than she’d ever seen, but still not quite torn. Voices whispered in her mind, singing sweet lullabies in long-forgotten tongues. Bethany could scarcely move her limbs, and left arm was numb with pain. With a grown, she struggled to free her other hand, put it against whatever was crushing her, and pushed it off her. Metal, by the feel of it, curved and polished smooth. She strained to sit up, almost immediately hit her head and summon a tiny light in her palm, scarcely larger than the flame of a match. The heavy object turned out to be a car door, and the darkness turned out to be owed to being buried underneath a toppled concrete wall. Miraculously, it had not crushed her.

Groaning, Bethany tried to feel her limbs – legs, arms, head; all still there and in working order. What had happened? She had tried to cast a spell, and then … she glanced at her left palm. The mark on it emitted a faint green glow, and – it seemed larger than it had been. Could that be right? No matter. With both hands, ignoring the pain, she tried to lift the concrete above her, but it would not budge. A small trickle of snow rained down on her head from a gap, where it almost immediately melted in her hair. Lovely.

She took a deep breath, gathered what magic she could. Luckily, it seemed that despite the pain in her mark, she had recovered her mana while she’d been unconscious. Somehow, she suspected the thinness of the Veil helped. How would she need to go about freeing herself? It was difficult to tell from underneath the collapsed wall, especially without being able to move very much. Suppose she just … cautiously, she reached out for the wall and slowly pushed it over. Almost immediately, she got a face full of powdery white snow, but to her great relief she could make out stars in the sky and the faint green glow that yet remained from the Breach. Issuing a silent prayer to the Maker in thanks, she wiped away the snow as best she could, set her feet against the wall, and complemented her magic with what strength her legs could muster. Finally, the slab of concrete flipped over on its edge and, in a resounding crash that raised enough snow to once again cover her face and set her eardrums ringing, fell to the ground.

For a minute or so, she lay there in complete stillness, in the snow, staring up at the night sky. How much time had passed? Last she remembered, it had been noon … she heard nothing but the wind, not even the crackling of a fire.

Finally, arduously, painfully, she pushed herself to her feet. On unsteady legs, she surveyed the devastation around her. The house she had woken up in had been swept away by the force of a massive explosion. How massive had it been? The house was located outside the town, overlooking Haven from the mountain slopes – not built here, but rather half-buried into the slope, as though it had been teleported here, if that were possible. Maker, how on earth had she survived this? By all rights, she should be dead right now, or at least far closer to the explosion’s epicentre. The town itself had not been spared, either, but rather than causing concentric destruction as one might have expected it, the explosion had cast a truly bizarre pattern through Haven’s buildings. Some houses had remained unscathed, while only rubble remained of those directly around them. Some had toppled _towards_ the explosion’s epicentre.

And all was illuminated by the sickly glow of a new rift.

Bethany could only stare in terror. Was this what she had wrought? How many had died today, by her hand; how many friends, how many innocents? Trembling, she raised her hand, looked at the mark imprinted on it. No, no her, at least not just. The orb Corypheus had used – whatever it was – had altered her spell, somehow, through the connection between it and the mark, had amplified it beyond all reason.

She wanted to run down the mountain, towards the town, to see what she had done and help whomsoever yet remained down there, but her legs would not move. Was that a scream, a cry for help, or was it just the wind? That, the shambling shape of a shade, or a wounded survivor looking for aid? Her legs would not move, try as she might. And, somehow, she knew there was nothing to go back for. There was a reason she had woken up where she had, so far away from the town, some sort of higher providence behind it …

She shivered, tried to summon a small flame to warm herself, and failed. Bethany took a deep breath, tried to focus. Maker, but the Veil was thin here … even without focusing, she could hear loud and clear the whispers from beyond. Some part of her wanted to reach out to them, but as always she forbade herself. This much was clear: she could not remain here.

Once again she looked out over the town. There was nothing to indicate survivors; hopefully, Cassandra had gotten out the civilians in time. What about the chantry? If anyone was still alive, that was where they’d be. She could not find it, try as she might, in the indiscriminate field of snowclad rubble. For all intents and purposes, the Inquisition was dead.

Slowly, Bethany turned around, away from Haven. She could not remain here … On unsteady, stiff legs, she started walking. The snow was deep, and her borrowed boots slipped around her ankles with every step, so that very soon her feet were not only soaked in molten snow, but also chafing. Still, she continued walking, found signs of a snow-covered hiking path lined with weathered wooden signs whose meaning she could not quite make out, but which she had to trust would take her somewhere – anywhere – away from Haven. Not once did she look back, not until she had reached the highest point of one of the narrow passes lining the valley between peaks. The town was almost out of sight, only defined by a faint green glow that mirrored the remains of the Breach. The Temple of Sacred Ashes, or rather what was left of it, stayed to her left; she was walking northwards. Was there a settlement northwards? She did not remember.

She didn’t notice when, exactly, she had lost the hiking path, and only realised much later that she’d seemed to walk for hours without encountering another way sign. By then, she had lost sight of where she’d come from, and the strong mountain gale had all but smoothed out her footprints in the new snow. She looked around, tried to orient herself. Mountains to the left of her, mountains to the right of her, mountains front and back. This peak, hadn’t she seen that before, straight ahead of her when she’d still been following the path? Or had it been this one, or that one …

Bethany looked up at the sky. Astrologers told them that the stars were the levers through which He who had made all of Creation guided and conducted all mortal endeavours, and that by observing them one could divine the future, much as they claimed the movement of the Black City around the Fade constituted a divine message. She’d always dismissed their claims as unscientific, quasi-heretical hogwash. Now, though, she would have given up her magic for a friendly star, or just for having paid more attention to their journals and symposia so that she might use the sky to, at least, divine where North might be.

She closed her eyes, felt the Veil. It was perfectly smooth and tightly-woven, a single virginal membrane that showed no signs of tampering. No one had cast magic here in decades, at least. Maybe never. Wherever she was, she might well be the first mage to set foot here in aeons. Aweing though that thought was, it didn’t exactly help her.

Somehow, Bethany found herself on all fours, kneeling in the snow, sobbing as her body was shaken to the core by a sudden pulse through her left palm. This was – it was all too much, far too much. Ella was dead, because of her, and now so were Varric and Cullen and all the others, all because of her. Maker, what had she wrought? What had she touched that had not turned to ruin? Let her die here, let someone else take up the banner against Corypheus. She’d fought him once and failed, and in failing to kill him had unleashed ruin upon the world. All that remained was for her to step back, out of the way, and let someone more competent deal with this. Someone like Cassandra, for instance. Cassandra wouldn’t have failed. Ella wouldn’t have failed. _Marian_ wouldn’t have failed, not the second time. Marian never failed.

Under the stream of her sobs, her thoughts dissolved into a disjointed mess of fragmentary flagellations. All that remained was to die, for to live meant soiling the memory of all those she had failed. Bethany knew she had not the strength – not the guts – to do it herself. Thankfully, she needn’t worry about that: nature itself would break her in half like a dry twig, sooner rather than later.

Later, she would not be able to explain whether she had drifted off into a light sleep or not, whether she had become delirious, or something else. All she would remember that the pain had left her. Her fingers, still numb, stopped hurting; the mark on her hand did not pulse again. Her feet might as well not have been there at all. All that remained was her heart, and her mind, both flashing red-hot inside her, filling her head and torso with a profound warmth.

And then, she saw herself, curled up in the snow like a sleeping infant in its crib, still as death but ­ _glowing._ Her chest and her face were alight with holy fire, burning so bright and warm that she could scarcely see aught else. Soon, her vision was entirely filled by a blinding light, warm and golden – and then she was ascending, rising from the snow through a space that was wholly light, defined only by itself …

She heard a voice. A woman’s voice, one she had never heard before, but which yet was as familiar to her as her own mother’s, if not more so. A voice as smooth as spun silver and as sweet as golden honey, bedecked in royal purple robes and armour as white and blinding as snow. It echoed through her head, reflected back and forth until it reverberated in a thousand voices, a choir all of sweet lightness and awful majesty. Every word shook her bones and sent her head a-ringing; every syllable made the very earth tremble in holy agony.

_Fear not, My Herald._

The words caressed her cheek like a lover’s touch, and she could smell blood and fire and lavender in the words. Could _see_ the words, and yet _hear_ them sounding like a clarion call in every cell of her body. And just like that, all at once she saw, heard, tasted, smelt, and _felt_ all over her skin the Voice that approached her, a tall flame that neither flickered nor faltered, but burned bright and straight. A nude woman, gold-in-gold, as even and as flawless as a statue, veiled in fire. _Fear not …_

With a golden hand that glowed white-hot, the Lady took Bethany’s hand, yet she felt not the slightest discomfort but only blissful awe. She was raised to her feet, and the Lady kissed her cheeks, her lips, and her brow. Bethany had never tasted anything sweeter. Her body seemed to be burning up from inside, her blood was boiling over in near-orgasmic delight. _Fear not, for I am watchful …_ The Lady looked her in the eyes and placed her palm upon Bethany’s mark. _This is My mark with which I have branded you, that all might know you belong to Me. This is My signet, that marks you as My Herald._

And then, just as she was about to drown in blissful nausea and let herself be consumed by flames, the Lady gently held her hand and raised it towards the horizon. The golden light was shrinking rapidly, compressing into a single point that shone all the brighter for it. _Let this be My sign to you._ The speck of light was so bright Bethany tried to avert her eyes, but the Lady bade her watch. So she watched, watched as the light ascended into the heavens before settling on its appointed place, shining bright gold against the darkness of the firmament.

One last time, the Lady cupped Bethany’s cheeks, tenderly touched Her lips to hers. This time, Bethany could not withstand, could not keep herself from screaming out in holy exultation. In this instant, she wished nothing more than to kneel before the Lady, drink Her blood and burn herself on Her fire –

She fell, the Lady slipping away above her head. Bethany reached out her hand to grasp Her, but only touched frigid air, and then she was enveloped in ice and pain and darkness – she screamed in pain and devastation.

“She’s here! We’ve found her!”

As she lost consciousness, the star still stood on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last scene is, to a large extent, based on hagiographic descriptions of visions of Christ in the western Christian tradition. There's all sorts of stuff about food and eating I could have brought in there, but it's all a bit weird and doesn't work quite as well in a society of universal plenty.
> 
> Please leave a review and maybe check out my other new fic, To Weather the Storm, which works to flesh out this AU's backstory a bit!


	9. Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I won NaNo while writing this, but I'm aiming for the 75k now. That might even mean another full chapter before the end of November, depending on how long it ends up being! :'D

Darkness ruled her mind. She was dead, Bethany knew, adrift in the Void. Just behind her, the Fade, and the Golden City – for it was golden, truly golden and echoing with the hymns of thousands of voices, spinning the world with their song. In front of her, nothingness; and yet each time she tried to turn back, return to bliss, she found herself reversed. She was dead, Bethany knew, for there was no pain but nothingness. The nothingness – the absence, now that she had felt presence and had drunken the holiest of holy flames­ – the longing alone, that was a greater pain than was granted to the living. She was dead and not in pain, and yet at once ablaze with holy agony.

She awoke to the sound of half a dozen agitated voices, arguing. Or singing? She could not make out the words, and the melodies and rhythms of their speech only barely. This was no song, no hymn, but rather the screeching of feral cats and smoking tires. Colourful lights filled her vision, blurry and confounded, but they seemed drab, faint and sickening to her now.

Bethany dozed off again.

The next time she regained consciousness, someone was trying to force something into her mouth. “Drink,” a disembodied voice commanded her, pressing something that felt like rubber to her lips. She tried to resist, but the voice brooked no disobedience. When she did open her mouth, a warm liquid flowed into her mouth. Tea. It was so bitter she tried to spit it out, but a firm hand pushed her down. “Swallow,” the voice commanded. Right now, Bethany wanted to hate that voice. To her, it seemed as rough and unpleasant as the screeching of fingernails on a blackboard. It tasted of despair. If only she was back where she had been, wherever that might be, safe in her Lady’s embrace …

The next time she awoke, she was well enough to see, and even sit up. She still couldn’t feel her extremities, but she had a headache to make up for that. There did not seem to be a single cell in her body that was not freezing. “Try not to move. You are very unwell.” Bethany looked up and could more or less make out Mother Giselle’s kind features. She opened her mouth to say something, but found she had no voice to say it with. “Easy, easy. Here, have some more tea. We need to get you warm again … there you go.”

This time, her words came out as a rasp, at least. “What … happened?” She didn’t know why that was the first question that came to mind. Others had lain on her tongue (why couldn’t you let me die? Why did you keep me from my Lady?  Does her star still shine in the sky?), but she found herself unable to ask them. Already, the memory of the Lady’s touch was fading, her body cold as ice rather than burning with desire, and all that remained was the memory of absolute bliss. Distant. Fading. No, she told herself, she’d remember this, remember every detail, lock it deep within her heart and never let it go.

“I don’t know, child. But we could not find you in Haven when we evacuated after the explosion. We feared the worst. It was by sheer coincidence that we found you at all. We hadn’t expected you to walk so far north, and would not have known where to look for you, if one of the rescue teams hadn’t moved through this area en route to Haven.”

She closed her eyes. A coincidence. No, the mother was wrong – this was no more coincidence than the constants of the physical universe, or the existence of the Fade, or the mark – the … anchor – upon her hand. Oh, but had she not suffered enough? Would her penance never come to an end? Had she only been granted death at last … no. No, she must not think like that. She could have died: would have died. But instead, she had been visited by her Lady, had kissed Her lips and drunken Her fire, and for a fleeting moment tasted absolution. Her survival, not by coincidence or blind chance but by design, could only mean that the part she was to play on this earth was not yet done. Sing, o sister, I shall throw you the yarn: know you how that will be?

Bethany sighed. If this was to be her lot … she did not dare disobey. Neither, she had to admit, did she wish to. Still, the possibility – faint and vain though it may be – of seeing her Lady again weighed heavy on her mind.

 _Coincidence._ Perhaps a less weakened, more combative Bethany might have scoffed at the idea. There was no coincidence in this, and Mother Giselle was a fool to think otherwise … no, not a fool. She could not blame her. Bethany knew, after all, that just a day ago she might have agreed with her. Giselle had not seen what she had seen. Giselle would never touch her hand to that of her burning Lady, would never intertwine her fingers with Hers, would never understand the true meaning of satisfaction. And Bethany could not help but pity her for that.

Again, she tried to sit up in her thick sleeping bag, and found she was also covered tightly in at least three layers of blankets. Only now did she also try to take stock of her surroundings: she was in a small, square tent, plain beige tarpaulin all around, the sort used by mountaineers. A small gas burner had been placed in the centre of the tent, a tea kettle on it, and doubled as heating. Mother Giselle was kneeling by her side, gently supporting here. “Easy, child. Don’t stress yourself.”

“I … I’m fine, I just …” She broke off and clenched her teeth as a sharp jab of pain shot through her head, neck and chest. “Oh, fuck …”

“Language, child. I did warn you, though. Master Solas did say you might wake up with a rather bad headache. In all honesty, it’s probably a good sign you’re only noticing it now.”

“Doesn’t … feel good to me. Solas examined me? What’s he say?”

The mother made a face. “A bunch of magic mumbo-jumbo, if you ask me. Apart from your hypothermia, he says you’ve got a mild case of thaumic radiation poisoning – hence the headaches.” She hesitated. “He is also … concerned about your mark. It is growing again. He said he’d want to talk to you as soon as you woke up, but I think he can wait a bit longer until you’re feeling better. We’d get you to an actual doctor, but … well, there are concerns.”

Bethany barely registered the confirmation about her mark. It was only to be expected, wasn’t it? “What sort of … concerns?”

The mother hesitated. “You’d probably best talk to Lady Montilyet about that. How are you feeling?”

“Sick of this sleeping bag.”

Mother Giselle helped her free herself from the stranglehold of the blankets. Only when she sat up did Bethany realise she was naked. She shot a sideways glance towards the mother, who merely rolled her eyes. “Oh, please …”  

Still, she found herself rather more sheepish than usual as the mother helped her get dressed. She couldn’t even remember when she’d last been naked around another person. That would – yes, that would have to have been Marian, the night before she’d left her. The last time she’d seen her. Where might her sister be now? For all Bethany knew, she might be dead, having gotten herself killed in some drunken brawl. Or she might have moved on entirely, found something else to keep her going, something that wouldn’t destroy her the way Bethany had done. Three years were a long time – why was she thinking about this?,  she scolded herself. She’d gone so long without pining for what-might-have-beens, and what-should-never-have-beens. No, do not think about Marian. Wish her well, but do not think about her, for the sake of everyone involved. And yet –

Frustrated, she dressed herself, at first turning down Mother Giselle’s assistance rather more rudely than she deserved, then having to submit when her all-but insensible fingers found themselves unsuited for the task. At least the clothes that had been provided fit, more or less: although by the end of it, Bethany would much have preferred a simple Inquisition uniform over the four or five layers of mismatched woolly jumpers that made her feel like a particularly ill-designed golem. When Mother Giselle then insisted on adding a coat that looked and felt as though it had been made for arctic explorers, Bethany tried to protest, but to no avail. Finally, with thick padded mitts, earmuffs and a woolly hat completing the impractical ensemble, Mother Giselle would at last grant her leave to exit the tent.

It was still night. Not a single cloud marred the skies, and starlight illuminated the mountain snow surrounding the small camp on all sides. Bethany paid them, or the vistas, no heed, only sought the heavens for what she needed to see: was it this one? Or maybe that one, over that mountain peak? When she finally found her Lady’s star, and could not hide her smile, she had to wonder how she’d been able to miss it. To her, it seemed the brightest star in the sky, by far.

“Share your joke with me?” Mother Giselle asked, having appeared by her side.

Bethany’s smile turned sheepish. “It’s nothing,” she lied. “Let’s find the others.”

It was only a small camp which had been set up here, deep in the mountains and presumably not far from where they’d found her. A few tents, half-buried in the snow, a bright yellow helicopter with the emblem of the Fereldan Red Sun on it, some other vehicles. Inquisition soldiers and mountain rescuers were gathered around in small groups; many turned to stare at her as she passed by. Bethany wondered why as Mother Giselle led her towards a bulky yellow rescue off-roader, around which a small group of people were gathered. “– cannot go on like this. Our whole operation is in shambles. And with Denerim pulling out, we’ve lost what little financial support we had, let alone most of the volunteers on loan from the Fereldan government. We need to retreat, restructure …”

“And then what?!” That was Cullen’s voice. He was almost shouting. “Who does that leave to fight this Corypheus person?”

“We barely even know anything about him yet –”

“Yes, and whose _fucking_ fault is that? How come we had no idea this was coming, anyway?”

Bethany stepped in their midst. “Enough! Stop it, all of you!” At least for now, the argument died down as all eyes came to rest on her. She took a deep breath. “We can’t … we can’t keep arguing among ourselves.” She found herself swaying slightly, had to reach for the still-warm hood of the truck to steady herself.

“Hawke, are you alright?” Cullen gently put a hand on her shoulder. “You should be resting. You’ve just been through a lot …”

“No, I’m fine. First off …” She paused. What was her priority? She hadn’t actually given that much thought. “First off, how many made it out of Haven alright? Who did we lose?”

A shadow came over Cullen’s face. “Almost a hundred people, including officers and civilian staff. And that’s us getting lucky. If not for Cassandra evacuating the town, and the odd explosion … well, suffice it to say none of us would be standing here now. We managed to get about three hundred more people to Bexley, but … well. Things are a bit more complicated now.”

Leliana scowled. “What Cullen means to say is that Prime Minister Guerrin called a couple of hours ago. What with the attack, he feels the Inquisition no longer works out to the … _benefit_ of his country. They’re pulling out of the deal at the earliest opportunity. We have to vacate Bexley by the end of next month. That also means we can kiss our financial lifelines goodbye, and a lot of our most experienced personnel are probably going to be recalled to their normal jobs. In short … well, we’re fucked.”

Josephine nodded. “That’s one thing we can still agree on, at least.”

She sighed. Somehow, Bethany wasn’t all that surprised; she’d never known bad news to come alone. “Listen, guys … it’s the middle of the night. Can’t we let this rest for a couple hours? We’ve all had a long day behind us. You won’t come up with any solutions now.”

The others were forced to admit that she had a point, and the meeting dissolved without any decisions having been made. Bethany and Mother Giselle watched from the sidelines as the other three wandered off, each on their own, and each left to their own thoughts. “It’s a miracle they’ve been in general agreement for so long in the first place,” the priestess opined. “From now on, I fear we will see more infighting.”

“Cullen and I were both considering to resign from the council just this morning,” Bethany confessed. “After tonight … no one even seems to remember how badly we screwed up at Therinfal and Redcliffe. Bringing both mages and templars under one roof again, without even telling them … Maker, I was so sure it could work.”

“You were trying to bring a bit of peace into the world. You cannot be faulted for that.”

“People _died,_ Mother. My own apprentice among them. And now, more people are dead, because we couldn’t kill Corypheus properly when we first encountered him.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, Maker. The way he was talking … makes me think that Corypheus probably is that ‘Elder One’ Alexius mentioned, too. The leader of the Venatori. And if Cullen’s right, and the templars at Therinfal got their red lyrium from the Venatori …” She shuddered, and not because of the cold. “Sounds like I just drove a bunch of very disgruntled mages and templars right into Corypheus’ arms.”

“You’re being too harsh on yourself. No one placed in your position could have done better, child. Always remember that the Maker still has a plan for you.”

Quietly, Bethany adjusted her gloves. The mark on her palm – the anchor – seemed to prickle. A plan, yes, perhaps. She knew, in her heart, that Corypheus had either been lying or had simply had no idea what he’d been talking about when he called her mark an accident. The Lady had called her ‘Herald’. Even so, the challenges facing her remained daunting. “When I was out there …” She broke off, unsure why she had even brought it up.

“Yes, my child?”

“I saw something,” she simply said. “A … well, a vision. I don’t really know how to explain it. Just … it was the most wonderful thing I ever experienced.” Bethany couldn’t keep the smile from her face. “I saw a … a woman. A Lady, made all of gold and light and fire. She embraced me. Called me ‘Herald’. I …” She broke off. Somehow, even talking about it felt like defilement. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about this.”

The smile Giselle gave her was more lenient than understanding. Almost immediately, her heart fell; it was clear the mother did not believe her. “Child … have you considered that you were under a lot of stress at the time? All alone, freezing. Radiation poisoning. And with you being a mage …” The priestess hesitated, and Bethany gave her a challenging look. Go on, say it. “It may have been something else. Spirits have been known to approach the lost and the suffering. In your state, it is no wonder the experience was … heightened.”

“I _know_ what I saw. And – and she’s _not_ a demon. Trust me, I’d know.” She scoffed. “You’re a theologian, aren’t you? Are you going to tell me none of it was real? How can you believe that?”

“I believe that it was real to you. But … many have thought they’d seen Our Lady in the past. Many of them were pious, virtuous people, including many saints of the Chantry. But even as we revere their examples, we have to bear in mind that many of them were already delirious from suffering and martyrdom. Others deliberately sought out the Fade, and then claimed the spirits that visited them were the genuine essence of Our Lady.” She sighed. “But Andraste sits by the Maker’s side now. For us, she begs and intercedes with Him, yet she does not stray from His side. Her work on this earth is done. It is for us, and us alone, to follow her example and once more regain our creator’s favour.”

“So … you’re saying I’m delusional. Maybe even heretical.”

“Child … all I’m saying is that we are always tempted, no one moreso than mages. Even if it seems a genuine vision, you have to remember that the Maker and His bride are not of this world.”

Bethany did not belabour the point. Giselle meant well, no doubt, but she did not believe. Maybe it was just because she had spent so much time writing theology and had become an atheist in all but name from deconstructing the minutiae of faith, but Bethany knew better. She _knew_ what she had seen, what she had felt. She _knew_ what demon dreams looked like. This? This had not been a demon’s attempt to get inside her head. The ecstasy she had felt when she had tasted her Lady’s saliva, Her blood and Her fire, when she had become wholly Hers for but an instant, that had been real. No one could deny that, and no one could take it away from her.

She had called her _herald._ Just what, exactly, was she to herald?

Not wishing to stir up an argument, Bethany changed the subject. “Look at them, though,” she murmured, indicating the people gathered around the camp. Not a smile was in sight. She had seen their expressions before, through smoke and flames in the burning Gallows, when they’d begun to count the battle in hours, not minutes. “We’ve lost so much. They’re almost ready to give up. It’s gonna be difficult to get back in the fight.”

“Quite so, I’m afraid.” The mother smiled. “Say, child, how well do you know your hymnal?”

“My … oh. I’m sorry, I’ve not really been to services in years.”

Said Giselle: “Hm. I think you will know this one.” Thus, she stepped forth, into the circle of tents. Under her thick padded parka, the hem of her white cassock blended into the snow. She folded her arms across her chest in prayer, and then she raised her voice: _“Shadows fall, and hope has fled ...”_

Bethany recognised the hymn almost instantly. Used throughout Cantantia, it was one of the oldest contained in the Royan Hymnal, as far as she knew, and one of the most consistently popular. Growing up in Lothering, it had been a regular feature at services just about every fortnight, courtesy of a somewhat unimaginative revered mother. During the Blight, it had been almost omnipresent on the airwaves, playing on RF Radio and RF One every day after the news, followed by the national anthem. She found it difficult to believe there was anyone left in the country who didn’t know it.

Sure enough, the hymn was taken up by another voice, and then another, and then another. Cullen joined in, revealing hidden talents with a clear and ringing tenor, and soon all the camp was on their feet, praising the Maker and finding renewed strength in darkness. At last, Bethany too raised herself from the truck’s hood and moved to join them.

That was when Solas appeared by her side. “A word, if you please, Herald.”

Somewhat baffled, she nodded, then followed as the elf led her away from the small camp. They walked quite a ways: at least several hundred metres, until the singing could no longer be heard except as echoes in the mountain snow. Bethany wasn’t quite sure if she was supposed to exert herself like this, but she was feeling surprisingly fine. Finally Solas came to a halt, and with a flourish of his hand lit a pale green flame in the air. Veilfire, Bethany recognised, an old-fashioned technique still used for some veluscopic tests. The elf reached out his hand. “Your mark, if I may.”

Ah. That explained a lot. Hesitantly, Bethany stripped off her left glove and gave him her hand. With sharp eyes, he scrutinised the anchor, prodding here and there and casting a few quick nonverbal spells. “As I suspected. The seal I created when you first received the mark is broken. The explosion in Haven …” He sighed, shook his head and murmured something in elven. “Varric tells me Corypheus used a certain spherical device. I had my suspicions; this confirms it. It is called – well, suffice it to say you would find it difficult to pronounce. It’s a magical focus. They were rare even in old Elvhenan, used to channel power from our gods. Frankly, I am amazed even one has survived until today, but it seems fitting that it would be in the hands of a Tevinter magister. Presumably, Corypheus used it to augment his powers and open the Breach. This time, he tried to use it to remove the mark on your hand. You tried to cast a spell at him, did you not?”

“I … yes.” Somehow, she was not surprised. She’d already known the explosion in Haven had been her fault on an instinctive level. Regardless … to hear it confirmed was terrifying. She’d killed … how many, had Cullen said? She could not remember.

“That magic flowed through the focus, the … Orb. Amplified, it was enough to open a new rift, a smaller Breach. The good news is that it wasn’t strong enough to do any serious damage …”

“Serious damage?” Bethany echoed, incredulous. “Solas, people died.”

“Point taken, but considering the alternative we should count our blessings. The bad news is that your mark is growing again, and I do not think I can stop its growth entirely this time. I will do my utmost to delay its expansion, but … at some point, you will be forced to choose between your mark and your life.”

“I don’t understand. Are you saying there’s some way to remove the mark?”

“Only one I can think of. I’m afraid it’s amputation. Of your hand now, but soon, we may not be able to stop its growth without removing your entire arm. What is important is that we do not let it grow past the shoulder. I do not know what the mark will do to your heart, your lungs, let alone your brain, and I believe neither of us is in any hurry to find out.” He paused. “Herald, do you understand what I’m saying?”

Tonelessly, she echoed him. “If it reaches my shoulder, I’ll need to have it removed. Yes. I …” Bethany closed her eyes and soaked in the frigid mountain air. Maker, what would she be without her mark? Not the herald, not even truly alive now that she had tasted what that felt like. “I understand. How much time can you give me?”

“I cannot tell. It might be months, or even years. Or it might be mere weeks. Either way, I would advise you not to try another stunt like yesterday. Using your mark puts strains on it, and each time you do, your body is dragged further out of this reality. Sealing rifts is one thing – and considering our situation, I do not see a way to dispense with it entirely – using it to channel magic from the Fade is quite another.”

“Right.” She paused, looked over her shoulder. By the looks of it, the people at the camp had finished their hymn, and hopefully retired to get a few hours of sleep, their hearts steeled anew for the battles to come. In the morning … Bethany wasn’t sure what they were going to do come morning. To hear Josephine tell it, the Inquisition was in dire straits, and the obstacles they faced were, while more distinct now, none the less daunting for it. After all – she thought – they had fought Corypheus once before, all those years ago, had left him in such a state that any mortal creature’s death would have been assured. Anders and the Wardens at the prison had all attested to his deadness, although no one who had seen his remains could have thought otherwise. Evidently, though, it had not been enough. Now, Bethany believed not for a second that the old devil had perished in the new rift at Haven. And, this much was becoming increasingly manifest: he had not one, but two armies at his beck and call. She’d always admired how the Hero of Ferelden had fought the Blight, but at least Queen Eleanor had had allies of her own, and the precedent of a thousand years of history at her side. Without any backers, how were they going to fight against Corypheus?

Bethany sighed, half-turned to the elf. “Solas, you’ve seen so much in your dreams. What do we do now? Where do we go from here?” She raised her hands. “We’re scattered. Broke. Stuck here in these mountains. And now we’re facing an ancient magister who can’t be killed. What can we possibly do?”

A lopsided smile appeared on the elf’s pencil-thin lips, and he slightly inclined his polished head. “I fear I am not the one who can answer that question. But I will try and pinpoint what the Inquisition’s next priority has to be.”

“And what’s that?”

“First, a new base of operations. Then, leadership. After that, you can rebuild and step back into the fight against Corypheus.”

“That’s easier said than done … both parts. I don’t think the Ferelden government will be too keen to have us stick around. And with the civil war in Orlais …”

Solas made a dismissive gesture. “That is not what you need, Herald. You need something that is indisputably yours, something that no one in their right mind will deny you. Something that broadcasts your power and authority to all who see it.” He folded his hands behind his back and looked up at the sky. “In ancient times, my people believed in using the stars to divine our fates. None of your human aberrations, of course … meaning no offense.”

She hadn’t felt offended, but certainly a bit peeved. “I don’t think astrology is going to help us right now.”

“Oh, it’s far simpler than that.” With a languid gesture, he pointed towards the sky. “Tell me what you see.”

Bethany followed his indication, and found to her surprise that he had pointed almost directly at the bright star that she knew to be the one her Lady had placed in the sky, just above the horizon. She shot a suspicious glance at the elf – she was pretty sure that he _couldn’t_ read her mind – but his sharp face showed no hint of recognition. It must have been a coincidence – if not providence. “I see … a star,” she finally said, returning her attention to the night sky. “The bright one, over there.”

“Tell me about this star. What does it mean to you?”

“It means … a covenant. Safety. A home. And also … fire. When I look at it, I feel as if I’m burning. It’s … it’s not unpleasant, but ...” She broke off. “I’m sorry, this must sound very weird.”

“Oh, not at all. The stars often tell us more than we first imagine, if we but let them.” He looked straight at her. “An inspired choice. That star is named, in the old elven, _da’el annar._ The Year Star. It sits right on the equator, and is visible throughout the winter. As it moves across the sky, the line between it and the south star crosses each of the six constellations visible around the south star from our hemisphere. Thus, we measured six months, and added a further six for that time in which _da’el annar_ was hid behind the horizon. I suspect the same is true for your own ancestors.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she admitted. “I never really paid attention to astronomy.”

“Are you saying young Bethany Hawke never dreamt of the stars? I find that hard to believe.”

“Nope. That was my twin brother, Carver. He wanted to become a caelonaut – I just wanted to not become a mage.” She tried a grin to lighten the sentiment behind _that_ statement. It didn’t really work. “So, uh … okay, I picked the Year Star. B-by accident, I assure you. What is that supposed to mean, then?” If Solas was going somewhere with this, she’d just have to humour him while he played his game. Maker help him if that game ended with pseudo-arcane bullshit about the zodiac or getting in touch with her inner spirit nug or whatever, though. She had no patience for superstitions.

The elf smiled thinly. “You already said it. Safety – a home – a hearth. Follow it, northwards, and we will follow you in turn. And then, you will find what you’re looking for.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh.”

“Don’t believe me – believe the star you chose yourself. Believe in what it means to you.”

Once more, she sought the Year Star – her Lady’s star – on the horizon. _Let this be My sign to you …_ She hadn’t chosen it by accident, that much was clear to her. If, indeed, there was some kind of message behind it … Bethany sighed. Damn it, now she’d never rest until she knew what lay towards that star, if anything. There had to be something, right? Her Lady had, after all, pointed it out to her. No, it had to mean something, it had to lead her to something that would allow her to better serve her Lady’s designs.

Again, she glanced at Solas. His expression had not changed. “Is this _really_ an ancient elven technique?”

Somehow, that hexed a gleam in his eyes. “Why, yes. The very oldest of them all. Now, then, shall we head back to the others?”

 

 

 

Bethany thought it over, lying awake in her tent while Mother Giselle snored lightly next to her. No matter how much she turned the idea over and around in her head, she could not escape the inevitable realisation that, no matter how little she _actually_ knew, and no matter how little justification she could think of for it, she knew in her heart that they had to follow the star north. What would they find there? She had no idea. How was she going to convince the others? Damned if she knew. All she knew was that it was what she had to do. _My Herald._ Her Lady had chosen her, and had given Bethany all she needed to know. The rest, she was pretty sure, was up to her.

At some point, she must have fallen asleep, after all, for suddenly light was shining through the tarpaulin of the tent and there were sounds of activity outside. Bethany yawned as the last vestigial images of a rather odd dream about Marian, Ella, and her one-time neighbour’s cat faded from her memory, then struggled to free herself from her sleeping bags. She didn’t know if there were any lasting effects to hypothermia, but she was feeling absolutely fine. Still, she put on her odd assortment of clothes, making a mental note to scrounge for something that actually fit her later, and crawled out of the tent in search of breakfast and ideally caffeine.

The sounds of activity, it soon emerged, were not due to the Inquisition agents breaking camp, but rather the departure of most of the mountain rescue teams. That included the helicopter, leaving them with a small number of trucks, all of them Inquisition equipment but winter-proofed with heavy snow chains on the tyres and other gear she didn’t recognise. She found Cullen and a short figure in a heavily-padded parka with the hood down that was probably Josephine leaning against one of them, talking quietly. “Good morning,” she mumbled, approaching them.

“Good morning to you, too,” the hood-that-was-Josephine responded. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good, honestly. Why aren’t we breaking camp?”

“Short answer? We’ve nowhere to go. When you awoke last night, we were still arguing over whether to return to Bexley or fly directly to Orlais from the mountains.”

She frowned. “Why Orlais?”

“As good a place as any. Don’t snicker, Cullen. We need to find new allies, and Eamon has expressed his opinion that he’d prefer us … that is, well … you, to stay out of Ferelden for now.” Bethany’s heart sank, but only slightly. It made sense, she supposed – she _had_ just opened a new breach in Haven. She had never considered herself truly Fereldan, not since she’d come into her magic, but the rebuke still stung a little. Josephine must have noticed, for she hurried to add: “Don’t worry, though. I’ll lean on the king for all it’s worth. We’ll come to some arrangement eventually.”

“Until then,” Cullen concluded, “we’re stuck on the outside. This whole stretch of mountains here is disputed territory, with the Empire, Ferelden and the dwarves all laying claim to it. Since no one wants to spark a diplomatic crisis, everyone mostly stays out of the way. For all intents and purposes, we’re stuck in no man’s land. Closest thing we’ve got to a plan right now is to just follow some of the more accessible passes west through the mountains, then set up shop somewhere in the Dales until we can arrange for something more permanent. Assuming the Inquisition survives this, of course.”

“Why, is that in doubt?”

“Look around you, Hawke. Our people are … well, you can see them for yourself. Idealism and faith are what’s carried them along so far, plus what successes we’ve had cleaning up the world, but whatever optimism we gained when you closed the Breach were lost with the attack on Haven. Without something to lift their spirits, we’d be lucky to maintain half our staff.”

Bethany nodded, counting her blessings. Grim though the situation was, she was relieved that the others didn’t have much of a plan. She had no idea how she might have convinced them to go north with her had they had something laid out. “We shouldn’t go west,” she said, trying to figure out how best to put this. “Or east, to Bexley.”

“Well, we can’t exactly return to Haven …”

“And I’m not suggesting we do. We will go north.”

“North?” Cullen and Josephine shared a look. “Is there anything I’m not aware of to the north?”

Well … probably? “Just trust me on this. We _need_ to go north, at least to scout it out.” No, that probably wouldn’t reduce the doubt in their minds. Oh, if only she could tell them about her vision, but she knew they’d find it just as hard to believe as Mother Giselle had. At best, they’d laugh it off as the product of a stress and hypothermia. She couldn’t exactly blame them; if she didn’t know it to be true, she would not have believed herself, either.

But whatever response Bethany had expected, it hadn’t been this. Josephine glanced at the commander, who shrugged. “Well, I _was_ thinking it’d make a better impression on the Orlesians if we don’t immediately set up shop within their borders without asking. If I went ahead to Val Royeaux, together with Leliana and maybe our aides …”

“We can’t stay here indefinitely, you know. No man’s land or not, this place isn’t exactly hospitable.”

Seizing the bizarre windfall, Bethany pressed the point. “Not indefinitely, no. But if we can stay here, buy Josephine some time … I don’t think we’ll have to go very far north to find what we’re looking for.” A sudden idea came to her. “Think of how it’ll look. The Inquisition has just received the fiercest blow in its brief history. Instead of aiding them as they can, the government throws them out of the country, and a cold and hard-hearted Orlais won’t take them in, either. The brave forces of the Inquisition, the … well, the Herald of Andraste, all stuck in this frigid no man’s land. You can get this message out on the Internet, right, Josephine?”

The diplomat was somewhat hesitant to respond. Bethany could virtually see her weighing her options in her mind. “Well, I suppose … it’s possible. I can definitely see it playing that way, although we’d have to be careful to continue working with both governments or we’d end up antagonising one of them. It would be more effective if I’d ever been allowed to set up a proper media operation, of course.”

“We’ve been over this,” Cullen sighed. “The need for secrecy …”

“Secrecy gets us conspiracy theories and suspicions, not donations or volunteers. Hedging and only revealing information in tiny little pieces is the worst mistake any fledgling PR operation can make, trust me on that.”

“Regardless,” Bethany cut in, having heard the same argument play out time and time again, “it’s our best option now. We need all the support we can get, after all.” Cullen had to concede the point. “Good, then it’s decided. Josephine will go to Val Royeaux – and possibly to Val Chevin, as well, if you think it wise to talk to the Chalonais leadership. In the meantime, we’ll scout north.”

“Alright, alright. But you still haven’t told us why we’re supposed to go north.”

She grinned. “Orlais to the west, Ferelden to the east, and the ruins of Haven to the south. Do you see any other options?”

That made the other two councillors chuckle. “I’ll have myself picked up by a helicopter later today, then. I can arrange for supplies to be sent to you from Bexley – it’s not going to be comfortable, but you won’t starve nor freeze to death if I can help it. Do we need anything else?”

“Journalists,” Bethany suggested. “Lots and lots of journalists. If this is going to work, we need maximum exposure – first slot on the evening news, front pages photographs … hell, a livestream. Show the world that the Inquisition isn’t going anywhere. And when we …” She paused, corrected herself. It wouldn’t do to be _too_ confident, if only so as not to disturb the others. “ _If_ we find anything, I want cameras on us.”

A positively ravishing grin had appeared on Josephine’s even face, only widening as Bethany continued. “Oh, I can do that. I can absolutely do that.” The smile faltered a little. “But … I want you to be clear on this. If we do this, we can no longer hide you, as we’ve tried until now. You _will_ have to come forward. You will be the face that’s on the news, the face on every cover. And after that, there’ll be no going back, neither for you nor anyone around you. You will face intense scrutiny, vitriol even – for your actions, for your family name, and for merely being a mage. Is that absolutely clear?”

Bethany could only offer up a wry smile. They could throw nothing at her she hadn’t told herself before. Besides … she wasn’t alone in this. She had friends now, perhaps for the first time in years. And, more than that: she had the Lady on her side, in all Her glory and magnificence. She would not fail. “I understand. And I accept it.” And then, attempting to lighten the mood, she added: “So, who’s going to tell Leliana?”

 

 

 

Josephine did not disappoint.

It took less than two hours after her departure before the first group of journalists arrived in a chartered helicopter of their own; a Radio Ferelden TV crew sent to cover the destruction of Haven. Seizing the opportunity of being the first to cover the Inquisition from up close, even in its darkest hour, they had abandoned their attempts to access the quarantined ruins of Haven, chartered a chopper and made their way north to meet them. They had brought more equipment with them than the Inquisition’s forces had been able to prepare during their haphazard evacuation, and found that sharing out thermos cans of tea and coffee not only improved morale among the Inquisition’s forces, but also got them talking. At some point, Bethany had asked them how long it would take for the first footage to be sent back to their studio in Highever, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that their camera had a direct satellite feed, allowing for live coverage.

She wasn’t entirely sure why they picked _her_ of all the people in the camp for an extended interview, but she was pretty sure they didn’t recognise her. Maybe it was because of the officer’s uniform she had scrounged together, maybe it was because the staff at her side made her more attractive to television crews – but she ended up answering their questions for the better part of an hour. For now, Bethany hedged on questions about herself or her role in the Inquisition, but the reporters didn’t pry and were more than happy to ask more general questions instead, at least for now.

It didn’t take long until others arrived – including several more television crews, both from Ferelden and Orlais, and print reporters. Once the numbers of Inquisition agents and journalists had almost drawn even, Cullen ordered the camp to be broken up. Tents, equipment and generators were packed onto their increasingly large fleet of offroad trucks, and within about half an hour all that remained of their sojourn here were traces in the snow. It was only just past noon when the small convoy started moving, northwards. They made slow progress, the trucks having to crawl through the snow and struggling up every steep incline. But first metre by metre, then kilometre by kilometre, they fought their way north.

Bethany spent much of the time marvelling at the natural beauty surrounding her. Even covered in snow, the narrow valleys and the soaring peaks, the jagged passes and the crystalline lakes were a sight to behold. There were no villages in this part of the Frostback, as far as she knew; even the most traditional of the Avvar clans never came here. When she checked the Veil every now and then, every indication suggested she was the first mage to set foot here in ages. This, Bethany thought, this was the essence of the Maker’s creation, the magnificence and beauty of a frozen land untouched by mortal hands or magic.

When the convoy struggled up one particularly narrow path, she walked next to it, near its head, and used the opportunity to look back again and again. Even over the sounds of engines and people’s chatter, muffled by the snow, Bethany could hear a little brook rushing somewhere to her right. From its source in the rocky spring, it rushed down – clear, fresh, and no doubt icy cold – into a long, serpentine valley. In summer, she imagined, there would be meadows down there, untamed, lush green between crags and rubble.

Was this what she had been meant to see, she wondered? There was no denying its beauty. Had her Lady intended to remind her of the supreme majesty of the Maker’s creation? If so, well, point duly taken. But … she had been hoping for something more tangible.

But perhaps that judgement had been premature. Solas, who had crested the pass ahead of them, was waiting for them, waving for her to join him. Tearing her eyes off the valley behind them, Bethany fought her way up the snowy slope. “What is it?” she asked, breathlessly, drawing level with him.

The elf said “look”, but he needn’t have bothered.

Ahead of them, the pass opened up to another valley, larger than any they had come through before, yet this one was rough and full of tall crags. Thundering rivers seemed to come down from the mountains, raising permanent clouds of steam where they gathered into lakes at the feet of waterfalls. The lowest level of the stair-like valley was almost entirely flat, and it took Bethany a moment to realise that this was another lake, this one frozen over and covered in snow whereas those on the upper levels almost seemed to be boiling. She couldn’t look at what she imagined was the source of those rivers for long before her head began to hurt from the attempt to reconcile what her eyes saw with what her min told her should be.

None of that, odd thought it was, could however have prepared her for what lay at the centre of the valley. On a massive spike or rather plateau, jagging out from where the upper lakes formed into waterfalls to rush down to the floor of the valley, stood a castle. It was not, as castles went, particularly large, and even from here she could see the disrepair it was in. The roof of what appeared to be the enormous main building had sagged in towards the middle, and the curtain walls looked like someone had taken a bite out of them. But the long, winding bridge that stretched from the castle’s gates to the fortified plateau just below them still arched unbroken over waterfall after waterfall, inviting them to follow.

In a sweeping gesture, Solas reached out his arm. “Skyhold,” he pronounced. “Your fortress.”

And Bethany knew then, knew for a fact, that by her Lady’s grace, this was where she would hold back the sky.

 

 

Leaving the trucks behind for now, they made their way across the bridge: beside herself, Solas, Cullen, Varric, Lavellan and a few others. For now, they’d been able to get most of the press corps to stay behind, and were only accompanied by a pair of journalists from the United Press agency. “I don’t understand this,” Cullen protested as they crossed over to the castle. “There’s not supposed to be _anything_ here. None of the satellite pictures I’ve seen show anything here but an empty valley.”

“The satellite imagery didn’t show Corypheus’ demon army either,” Solas suggested. “Perhaps Skyhold was similarly hidden.”

“Possible,” the commander allowed. “It still seems odd. Demons are one thing, but I’ve never heard of anything else being magically hidden like that – certainly nothing this size.”

Bethany looked around. The mountain streams still gave her a headache. “There’s something off about this place. It’s clearly not natural, but I sense no traces of magic in the Veil.” Could it be? Could a higher power, one that stood above magic, have intervened to form this place, this … Skyhold from nothingness? If so, there could be no doubt about its significance.

They arrived at the gatehouse. The drawbridge had long rotted away, but between Solas’ and her own magic, they quickly formed a rudimentary path across the gap. Nothing remained of the gatehouse’s once-impressive portcullis but rotting wood and rusted iron, half-fallen out of its frame, and they stepped through into the courtyard … almost immediately, Bethany felt a hot wind brushing her face, and had to remove her thick winter coat. The courtyard was warm, at least twenty degrees, far warmer than the Frostbacks in early Guardian had any right to be. She glanced around to find she was not the only one; the others were also removing their outer garments. What was still more impressive: the courtyard was bright green, overgrown with tall grass and bushes. Vines clung to the inside of the tall castle walls and up the bases of towers and stone houses, some of them bright with flowers.

“That’s … that’s impossible,” Cullen murmured, half-entranced. “This can’t be real. It’s the midst of winter …”

Solas, with a flick of his heavy wooden staff, dropped what she assumed was a warmth spell around his body. “You would be wise not to assume anything, commander,” he said. “There is more to magic than you can dream of. Than any of us can imagine. Whoever built this castle imbued it with all it needed to survive its precarious location. Come, now, why don’t we have a look around.”

Bethany moved to follow him, even as Varric drew level with her. “Careful,” the dwarf murmured. “I don’t trust this. Huge-ass medieval castles don’t just appear out of thin air, in my experience.”

“Not in mine,” she admitted, only half-listening to him. “But … you have to admit, it’s miraculous.”

“… I guess? Come, let’s see if there’s anything that wants to kill us.”

Following Solas, they climbed a long, broad staircase up to the upper level of the courtyard. Bethany was struck by how generous this castle’s proportions were; even without the crumbling walls and towers, it felt more like a representative palace than the dreary bulwarks of old Castle Redcliffe. Whoever had lived here had cared at least as much about making sure everyone know how powerful they were as about actually defending themselves. When she related those observations to Solas, the elf only snorted.

There was another courtyard at the top of the stairs, and another set of stairs, even grander than the former. Some rubble remained of a thin arch of sorts at their foot, but it had long since collapsed under its own weight, what few engravings could yet be seen long smoothed out by the wind. Lavellan picked up one of the remaining stones and held it up against the light. “Looks weird,” she said. “Kinda like a wolf’s head, if you squint.” With a shrug, she threw it in the air, then gave it a kick as it came down. It was not by any means what Bethany would call aerodynamic or even light, but it still flew a respectable distance, straight through the window of a nearby house. Lavellan cheered; Solas covered his face with his arm.

“ _If_ you are quite done …” he said, his voice sounding strained.

“That wasn’t half bad,” Varric commented in his stead. “You a footballer, Thistle?”

The elf laughed. “Thistle? I like it. And nah, not really. Used to play in youth clubs as a kid, but being Dalish means moving constantly so nothing ever really came of it. In the end I just gave up on it to focus on hunting.”

“You could start a team. There’s bound to be more rubble you can quick around.”

“Now there’s an idea …”

“Ahem!” Shaking his head, Solas moved on, up the stairs into what appeared to be the main hall. Bethany followed, and so did the others, eventually. Almost immediately, Bethany was struck by its size: yes, she thought, a place to hold court and a place to feast one’s allies, not a place to defend. On a raised dais at the end of the room before two-and-a-half huge stained glass windows, she could just about make out the shattered remains of a throne, but the way there was blocked by debris from the roof. Dozens, if not hundreds of shattered burnt shingles, as well as a few massive wooden beams. Around the centre of the roof, a large patch of open sky was visible; the rest of it sagged precariously. Behind them, the UP photographer took

“A lightning strike?” Cullen speculated. “Or just rotting beams?”

Bethany shrugged. “Either way, it looks like we need to replace the entire roof.”

“Replace the … Hawke, you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting. This place is a ruin. It’d take months just to make it habitable. Besides, it’s in the middle of nowhere. It’d be a logistical nightmare just to get building materials here – not to mention power, running water, phone lines …”

“True,” she serenely conceded. “But it is also our fortress. Skyhold is our new home, there is no other way of seeing it. Andraste Herself led us here. For as long as we remain here, as long as we maintain this steadfast, it will be ours, and the Inquisition will stand strong. We closed the Breach. We survived Haven. You, Cullen, you fought an Envy demon who was trying to possess you and lived to tell the tale. I travelled to the past, and then the future. I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to let a bit of hard work frighten me out of claiming this place … or rather, re-claiming it for the Maker’s glory.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” But Bethany had already turned away from him, marched down the hall and then through one of the side doors into an elegant quad. The eroded remains of stepping stones were still visible in the grass, but the covered well and the stone benches lining it were in perfectly good condition. Bethany stepped onto the warm grass, looked around. A place of quiet contemplation, like a monastery or an ancient university college. She could feel the fresh mountain air, now pleasantly warm, brushing over her skin. There was even some birdsong from the rafters, soft, melodious trills. “Hey, Hawke! Hawke! Listen to me!” The commander caught up to her. “Hawke, I agree this is a fortuitous find. We should definitely use this opportunity for all its worth, and I’m not suggesting abandoning it entirely. But let’s be practical. Skyhold would take forever to get back into shape, if it’s possible at all. Even if we cut through all of the red tape, it’d take at least half a year just to build a road here through the mountains.”

“Would it though?” On their way here, she had studied the maps of the area. True, not one of them had featured Skyhold or even its valley. But they _had_ shown one of the main motorways connecting Orlais and Ferelden through the Frostbacks, Route Celestine, just a few kilometres north of here. “If we get support from the Fereldan and Orlesian governments, we can probably cut a road from Route Celestine within a month. It doesn’t have to be very impressive, of course. Not at first, anyway. And after that …” She looked around. “Cullen, this place has stood for hundreds of years. I’m sure we can work with the existing structures. If we put the Inquisition to work on this, we can do this. I know it.”

“Oh, and when did you become the expert on restoring medieval castle ruins?”

“I _know_ it, Cullen.” She turned to face him, withstood his irritated glare with one of her own. “We were led here for a reason.”

Before he could reply, she walked across the quad. There was a door at the other end of it, still mounted in its hinges. To her surprise, it even still opened, although the squeal of the old iron hinges was horrific. “Hawke, we can’t …”

A large wooden beam blocked her path. She could barely see past it; colourful rays of sunlight fell through a stained glass window straight into her eyes, blinding her. The small, rectangular room smelt of must and grass and wax. “Help me with this, will you?” Her voice brooked no protest, so Cullen was by her side within an instant. Together, they managed to raise the beam from the rubble and carried it back out into the quad, where they gently dropped it onto the stone floor. “Hawke …”

She went back into the room, and froze. Under the window stood her Lady: taller than life, austere and beautiful. Clad in stone garments, not fire, but still, unmistakeably, Her – without averting her eyes from the play of light and shadow on her Lady’s face, Bethany stepped forwards, towards Her, and with a flick of her finger lit the ancient wax candles at her feet. All the world was in this room, it seemed, this chapel of grace, this sanctum sanctorum. Slowly, unsteadily, Bethany went down on her knees. She lowered her head, crossed her arms over her chest, and gave thanks to her Lady. Gave thanks to Andraste, who had chosen her to be Her Herald on this earth.

 

 

 

To Bethany’s surprise as much as satisfaction, Skyhold featured prominently on the following day’s front covers, and reading through the accompanying articles she found the overwhelming narrative was of ‘an army of the faithful, finding miraculous salvation in their darkest hour.’ Even those papers which dismissed finding Skyhold as ‘at best a lucky coincidence, at worst a calculated publicity stunt’ raised sharp questions about Prime Minister Guerrin’s choice to withdraw his support from the Inquisition. To their delight, Orlesian and Chantry-aligned papers called on the imperial government – whichever was meant by that – to make up for their lesser neighbour’s shortcomings, and within due time an appropriations bill was put to the National Assembly to free up funds for the support of the Inquisition.

And, as Josephine told them in a series of long, indistinct phone calls from Val Royeaux, the effects of the coverage also expressed itself in an increasing influx of donations. Most were minor, some actually worth less than it cost them to process. Very few numbered in the millions of sovereign, including two large donations over more than ten million sovereigns, one as an unsolicited grant from the Starkhaven Accord’s sentientarian disaster relief fund, the other anonymous. The average donation, however, was a neat and very quotable 25 sovereigns, a fact Josephine left out no opportunity to smuggle into her press releases. It wasn’t nearly enough to cover the massive hole Ferelden’s withdrawal had torn into the Inquisition’s budget from the month of Cloudreach onwards, but it did nearly double their liquid assets over the course of a week. After a long debate over how to use these funds, which found Bethany aligned with Josephine and Leliana, it was decided to invest all available monies into rebuilding and renovating Skyhold: after that, the Maker alone knew. Or, to put it another way, they’d need to put their faith in Josephine getting the Orlesian government to support the bill in the Assembly.

She wasn’t sure who was more surprised: herself, or Cullen. Cassandra arrived at Skyhold the day after they had discovered the fortress, and was followed by a steady stream of Inquisition agents from Bexley. Soon, the castle was bustling with activity as soldiers and volunteers from all walks of life were put to work. Paying well above market price and entirely ignoring the appropriate channels for road construction, the Inquisition hired construction companies from both sides of the Frostbacks and put them to work, cutting a simple, if serpentine road through the mountains to Skyhold. Within a month, the first truck drove all the way from Skyhold to a pit stop on Route Celestine, although it would take another two months for it to be fortified for heavier traffic. At the same time, a relatively flat area near the bridge to Skyhold was converted into a helipad to ensure ready access by air, and a direct connection to their people at Bexley – where, for now, Leliana, who required more reliable Internet and power connections, had set up shop. Similarly, Skyhold was connected to the power grid, although for now only a few of its rooms had been given access to electricity – for this connection consisted only of low-voltage overhead transmission lines on wooden poles, erected alongside the new road. Ideally, everyone involved agreed, one might harness the natural energy of the waterfalls in the valley, but on the scale required such a construction would take time and money. Still, for now several micro hydro systems were set up, and together with the main power it would provide a good stopgap for powering those parts of the castle they had already made habitable. Plumbing was simpler: they quickly discovered that parts of Skyhold were built into a cavern behind one of the waterfalls. They put some former military engineers, mages and civilian hires together to devise a surprisingly simple way to purify the mountain water and establish a pumping system (the key of which was to convince the water it had the density of helium. Even Bethany, herself a trained Force mage, didn’t quite understand it; and she suspected it would not have worked before the first Breach was opened). Naturally, very few of Skyhold’s rooms had yet been equipped with the requisite plumbing, and it would take some time for that to be done, so that hygiene was distressingly communal. Meanwhile, the roof on the main hall was torn down and rebuilt entirely, and structural weaknesses or broken-down walls were patched up and replaced with modern masonry or prefab concrete.

But despite those difficulties, work progressed unabated. By the end of the first month, Bethany found herself forgetting at times that Skyhold had not always looked like a somewhat modern office building, with clusters of cables snaking along the walls and computer work stations; had not always looked like a hotel, with elegant furnishings having been brought in to provide comfortable lodgings for the Inquisition’s leadership and visiting dignitaries; had not always presided over the small shantytown of steel huts that had sprung up in the valley below them. Then, of course, Bethany walked past the gaping, vertigo-inducing hole in the wall towards their new war room, which had only been closed so far by a colourful construction ribbon and a cardboard warning sign, and thought the better of it. Clearly, there was much more to be done for Skyhold to be made not just habitable, but liveable. But they were on the right track.

Bethany assisted in the construction efforts wherever possible: she found there was almost always a use for a mage who was handy with gravity. Still, she found she more and more frequently divided her time between discussions in the war room – frequently including Leliana and Josephine on lagging and pixelated video calls –, handling the small permanent press corps that had sprung up around Skyhold to cover the Inquisition, having landed the role of effective press officer by process of elimination – and the chapel. That was one of the first parts of the castle she had refurnished and redecorated, even before the large chamber at the top of the keep she had been assigned as her living quarters. The stained glass window was broken and would have to be replaced at a later point, but for now Bethany had set up benches, and made sure there always were lit fires and an open Chant of Light at her Lady’s feet.

One of the good things about this arrangement – probably – was that familiarity bred contempt. Rarely, if ever, did the journalists she was dealing with on a day-to-day basis ask her questions about herself. And when Josephine first forwarded her a brief profile from the online magazine POLITIQUOI in which she was unkindly described as ‘generally passive’ but ‘influential when she makes her voice heard’ and ‘surprisingly timid for a spokesperson’ and ascribed ‘fluid loyalties’ and ‘heartfelt idealism’, she did so with an added note that she was the last member of the council to be profiled by that publication, and that her article was considerably shorter than the others. At this point, her identity as the ‘so-called’ Herald of Andraste had become an open secret to those in the know, but as far as she knew, it had yet to be picked up by the mass media, presumably as a courtesy. No one wanted to disgruntle the Inquisition’s apparently ‘influential’ press secretary-cum-divine representative by breaking a story before the official announcement, it appeared. Still, their questions were becoming more persistent the longer they spent isolated in a mountain fortress while the Inquisition dedicated itself more to building than creating order.

Today was no exception, Bethany thought, grimly observing the disinterested faces of the journalists in front of her as she finished reading out the statement that had been prepared for her by Josephine’s team in Val Royeaux. “… so that the Inquisition would like to reiterate its commitment to the principle of neutrality. We are prepared to work with any and each party that shares out commitment to restoring order and the rule of law across southern Thedas, whoever they may be. As we have stated before, that includes both Her Imperial Majesty’s Government and His Grand Ducal Highness’s administration, irrespective of their differences, with a long view towards a lasting negotiated peace settlement in Orlais.” She closed the folder with her notes. “That’s all I’ve got for you today. Questions?” One of the journalists in the back row, an aging elf in a grey suit, languidly raised his hand without looking up from his notepad. “Leven, please.”

“Thank you. The other leaders of the Inquisition – Seeker Pentaghast, Commander Rutherford, Ladies Montilyet and Nightingale – have all made themselves available for interviews and personal questions over the past two weeks, some of them multiple times. Lady Montilyet alone has spoken to _La Royainne,_ TO24’s _Daily Report,_ and POLITIQUOI. When are you going to have a press availability yourself?”

Bethany gave a thin-lipped smile. “I think I’d rather stick to on-topic questions for now, Leven. Who’s next?”

After a brief moment of silence, a young woman in a band shit and torn jeans in the back row raised her hand. Bethany hadn’t seen her before, but there could be no doubt she worked for an online publication. “Yes, the lady at the back. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Elaine Wadham, I’m the new Inquisition embed for Accordingly.ma.” A Starkhaven-based page focusing on the internal politics of the Accord, Bethany thought, recalling Josephine’s crash course in the most important news outlets this side of the Minanter. As if the accent hadn’t been a dead giveaway. “Does the Inquisition intend to make an official statement on the identity of the so-called Herald of Andraste soon – that is to say, the _woman who fell from the Breach_?” Those last words were sharply pointed.

She had to suppress a sigh. There always was someone who asked that question. She supposed she had to count herself lucky that the story had yet to break in a big way. Still, Josephine had been right: the more she talked to these journalists, the clearer it became they wouldn’t wait forever. No doubt they had already gone through every detail of her background and prepared exposés. In the end, unless she got the go-ahead from the other councillors, some ambitious young web journalist like Serah Wadham would no doubt get the drop on them. “We are not in the habit of making pronouncements on internal personnel matters,” she recited from memory. “Nor does the Inquisition presume to touch on matters relating to the Andrastian faith. As we have said before, all we are willing to say at this point is that the Inquisition does have an individual who survived the Conclave attack on its payroll, and that this person has proven instrumental to our efforts to close rifts across southern Thedas and saving countless lives in the process.” This part of the standard answer, at least, was fun to say, if a little embarrassing. Serah Wadham looked to be readying herself for a follow-up question, but Bethany was faster. “Next, and please … only questions relating to my statement for now.”

No one raised their hand. She couldn’t blame them, her statement _had_ been phenomenally dull, and had contained little beyond a reaffirmation of previous Inquisition policy. Still, she found herself rolling her eyes. “Very well then. If there are no more questions, I think we’re done for today.”

With only the barest amount of grumbling, the journalists filed out of the room. That room – well, it wasn’t exactly ideal for press conferences. Or anything else for that matter, Bethany thought, glancing out onto the snow-covered valley through the wall. Where the wall should have been, anyway. Right now, the only thing stopping someone from plummeting to their death was a steel scaffolding tube attached to the remains of the outside wall around waist height. A small child could easily have walked through out of the castle without bowing its head. … yeah, at some point, they would definitely have to do something about this. In the meantime, the fresh air at least kept her audience from falling asleep.

Bethany gathered her notes from the podium and checked her phone. She was still quite early for the council meeting Cassandra had called for later today. For a moment, Bethany played with the thought of going to the chapel in the quad for some quiet contemplation (or her quarters up on the top floor of the tower, for a nap), before the phone buzzed in her hand. Huh, new message from Leliana. The spymistress had arrived at Skyhold earlier that day, and Josephine the day before, so that all five councillors were together in one place for the first time since the attack on Haven had dispersed them. _Come to war room ASAP._ Curt, as usual. Someone really ought to inform Leliana that it was considered rude to summon people without explanation, but Bethany suspected the Nightingale wouldn’t care. Josephine, who’d known the spymaster even before Bethany had first met _Sister_ Leliana, the Chantry lay sister, had recommended she just put up with it. Leliana would come around to a more civil mode of behaviour, the diplomat had assured her, when and if she felt like it, and there was nothing anyone else could do about it.

Still, she had to admit to herself, Leliana usually had good reasons. If whatever she wanted to talk about couldn’t wait until the scheduled meeting later that day, it had to be important. Hence, Bethany gathered up her notes and documents and left the press room, locking behind her. You never knew if some soldier drunk on moonshine might not stumble in here and decide to go for a sobering swim in the waterfalls dozens of metres below the castle.

The press room had been set up in one of the towers of the curtain wall, on the easternmost corner of the castle, so that Bethany found herself standing on the open battlements the instant she stepped out of the room. Very little work had been done here so far: no one seriously believed they were likely to face a medieval army besieging them, irrespective of whether Corypheus’ behaviour at Haven belied an understanding of modern military tactics or rather a lack thereof, as Cullen and Leliana had argued. Accordingly, the curtain walls had only been reinforced to such extent as damage had made them impossible to traverse, and otherwise supplemented by bundles of cables snaking down along the crenellations. Perhaps that was for the best, Bethany thought, looking out onto the valley to her left as she walked down the wall. With the mountain cold held at bay by the castle’s magic, there was nothing to distract her from the sublime sight. The sun’s reflection in the still frozen lake, the diamantine sparkling of the snow on the mountain slopes … even after seeing it every day for the better part of a month, it still took her breath away. Only the barracks and huts that had emerged in the valley beneath Skyhold and the construction vehicles snaking along the serpentine road distracted from the sublime serenity of the Maker’s creation.

Tearing herself away, Bethany continued down the wall, then crossed the courtyard into the main hall. Even now, one could hear the hammering and sawing of the roofers hard at work up in the rafters, but the structure and inside part of the new roof had already been constructed and one could no longer see the sky from the inside of the hall. The rafters and beams were still exposed, any hope of using the space under the roof for practical purposes having been crushed by structural considerations, but the Inquisition’s contracted architects had already made the best of that situation by adding textile cover to hide the less appealing parts of the hall’s roofing, electrical wiring, and hundreds of lamps and lights. In so doing, they had succeeded in turning the inside of the roof into a chain of massive, elaborate light installations that both illuminated the hall and created on the ceiling a sky of fascinating shadow play that changed depending on where you stood. From both ends of the hall, however, the shadows and light worked together to paint the Inquisition’s sword-eye-and-sunburst emblem onto the ceiling.

At the same time, the stained glass windows at the head of the hall had been reconstructed. No one was entirely sure what they represented – they were abstract at least as much as they were pictorial – so that the artists they had commissioned, under the surprisingly apt guidance of Solas, who seemingly must have counted a doctorate in art history among his many mysterious qualifications, had eventually settled on recreating the partially-shattered middle window in the same style, but displaying scenes depicting, in sequence, the first appearance of the Breach, a rather idealised vision of a mage and a templar shaking hands in cordial alliance, the attack on Haven and finally the discovery of Skyhold. The large roundel window at the apex of the wall, however, had been replaced entirely with a representation of the Inquisition’s sword, eye and shield emblem. Pointing almost precisely north, the sun shone directly through these stained glass windows throughout much of the midday and afternoon, and painted many-coloured shapes onto the stone walls and floor of the hall.

That Bethany froze in her tracks as she entered the hall today, however, had nothing to do with these renovations. Nothing could possibly distract from what had been placed at the head of the hall, on a small dais between the pair of massive stone and aurum braziers embedded into it: a tall-backed, gilded armchair, decorated all over with floral motifs and abstract arabesques. Its narrow back and seat were padded with red velvet, and the decorations at its head displayed in their negative the Inquisition’s emblem. Bright sunlight shone right through it, so that the sunburst eye almost seemed to truly be aflame. Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine and Leliana stood around the throne, all in full Inquisition uniforms, and turned to look at her as she entered the otherwise empty hall.

Not knowing what to expect, Bethany slowly made her way towards them. It was only a few dozen metres, but it felt like the longest she had ever walked. “Oookay,” she finally said to the others in an attempt to distract from how nervous she was, climbing onto the dais. “Who ordered the fancy chair?”

 “That’s one of the things we were hoping to talk to you about,” Cassandra confessed, a smile playing around her lips. She was carrying a thin, hard-backed black leather folder under her arm. Embossed on the cover, in gold, was the Inquisition’s emblem and some lettering she could not make out until the Seeker handed it to her. _Charte constituante de l’Inquisition_ , it read. “Cullen and Josephine have been working on this for the last three weeks.”

“After Haven, we’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the weaknesses in our organisation,” Josephine said. Bethany wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her in full uniform before – she looked gorgeous in it, but somehow she knew that she would never, ever get used to it. Josephine was a civilian through and through, even moreso than herself. “In the immediate aftermath, we were so – paralysed. If not for your pushing, we might have stayed in that camp for days, unable to decide even on a direction to head in. And before that? We were split on almost all major decisions. Whether to save the mages or the templars; whether even to take up residence here at Skyhold … Endless arguments, from the very beginning. Without your intervention, we might not have gotten anything done at all, or have quietly perished after the attack on Haven. But instead, we’re here.”

“And that’s why,” Cullen continued, “we’ve had a long, hard look at how we work. We’ve been running this Inquisition like a company, but it needs to be run like an government – like an army – like an order.”

Bethany opened the folder. There were only a pair of pages in it, affixed to the leather by elastic golden cords. She quickly ran her eyes across the text. “What’s this … ‘do restore and establish, by ancient custom, the title of _Inquisitor_ , the holder of which, being chosen by the aforementioned Constituting Council, is charged with governing, controlling and commanding the Inquisition and its forces …’” She looked up. “You want to put someone in charge,” she concluded. To be entirely honest, Bethany did not mind that idea in the slightest. She found herself obliged to agree with Josephine’s assessment; the council in its current state was a dysfunctional mess, and its meetings more often than not a dreadful bore. Someone needed to have the final say to cut through endless arguments and make decisions, that much was clear. She was just surprised it had happened so quickly. “It’s not a bad idea,” she said.

Cassandra smiled. “I thought so, too. That’s part of why I’m stepping down from the Council, once we have signed this document.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. That meant the Seeker would become … Inquisitor, didn’t it? She tried to imagine Cassandra in that throne. Chances were she’d tear it apart within days. But even so, Bethany could definitely see the appeal. Indeed, on closer reflection, it was a natural fit. The Seeker had a strong personality and her devotion to both the late Divine and justice were beyond any reproach. Besides, being a Seeker watching over mages and templars and being an Inquisitor watching over … well, mages and templars weren’t all that different, as far as she could tell. Neither were heading the Kirkwall Inquiry to investigate the rebellion at the Gallows and restoring order to Thedas in its aftermath. She reached out her hand. “Congratulations, Cassandra. I couldn’t think of anyone better to lead us.”

The Seeker, however, recoiled slightly. “You … you misunderstand. I am not the one who must, or can, lead us.”

Leliana stepped forward, suddenly holding an elegant smallsword with a gilded hilt, guard and a red silk tassel in her hands. “There is only one person who can lead us,” she said, ominously approaching Bethany, who instinctively retreated. An amused gleam stood in her eyes, but her voice was solemn and carried through the hall. “The one who has already been leading us. The one without whom this entire Inquisition would be nothing but a host of rabble-rousers – the Herald of Andraste.”

Bethany felt her pupils dilate, her cheeks flush red, and the ground below her dangerously sway. Oh … “You … you can’t be serious!” she protested. “I … I don’t know the first thing about leadership. I’ve made so many bad choices …”

“You give yourself too little credit,” Cullen objected. “If there’s one thing I’ve come to admire in you over the years we’ve worked together, it’s your idealism. Your perseverance, your determination that, even if things seem hopeless, you’ll continue fighting for what you think is right. You’ve demonstrated that in Kirkwall, at Haven, at Redcliffe and dozens of other places in between. And that – idealism – is something the Inquisition sorely needs, both right now and in the long term, if we don’t want to end up as just another army of thugs with guns.”

“You were the only choice,” Josephine concurred.

“I can’t … I can’t accept this,” Bethany began. She’d done so much wrong. From botching the recruitments of mages and templars for the Inquisition just over a month ago and getting Ella killed to destroying Haven, there had been nothing but failures on her watch. And before that, in Kirkwall? She’d stood at the centre of not only a violent rebellion that had cost tens of thousands of lives over the past few years, but had also had a hand in unleashing Corypheus unto the world … she could not accept this, because the consequence of it would inevitably be more death, more suffering, more destruction.

 _Except you’re no longer alone_ , a nagging voice at the back of her head told her. No, she had to admit, no longer. Her Lady Andraste was with her. _Fear not …_ She closed her eyes, issued a silent prayer. There was no sign, but Bethany felt strengthened by it regardless. Then, she opened her eyes, looked at her hand. By now, the mark had almost reached her wrist, although she’d hardly used it over the past month, even to close rifts. _This is my signet, that marks you as My Herald_  … Swallowing hard, Bethany returned her attention to Leliana and the sword in her hand. Then, she said: “Alright. I’ll do it.”

The other counsellors – her advisers now, she supposed – breathed sighs of relief and smiles appeared on their faces. Maker, she really had been their only choice, hadn’t she? Leliana stepped forwards and, perhaps deliberately getting closer to her than was strictly necessary, strapped the sword to her uniform belt. Bethany was rather proud of herself for not flinching at having the spymistress handle a deadly weapon so close to her body. “What, um,” she made, “What’s with the sword?”

The others looked at her as if she’d grown another head. “Well, obviously you’ll have to be a knight,” Cullen said as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I mean, I don’t think there’s been a mage knight in centuries, if ever, but this is the Dragon Age. I think we can dispense with the other ceremonies, though.”

“Uh, sure, I guess? Why do I have to be a knight?”

“Well, obviously you’re going to be in charge of knights. Templars, for instance, but also others. You need the added legitimacy.”

“Right. Of course.” She nodded towards Josephine. “Josie isn’t a knight, though, and she’s got templars on her staff. Neither is Leliana.”

The two women gave her odd looks. “Of course we are,” the diplomat said. “I’m a knight bachelor of the Royal Antivan Order of the Mermaid.”

“Knight Commander with Grand Collar of the Order of the Mabari,” Leliana added from below Bethany’s arms. “I fought in the Blight, remember?” With a final tug, she let go of the sword. It felt surprisingly light at her waist, but Bethany still felt uncomfortable with it. Especially considering Leliana had moved her staff to the right side of her belt, when she always carried it on her left.

“I don’t _have_ to wear this thing all the time, right?”

Cassandra chuckled. “Of course not. This is just for the ceremony. Bear with it, it won’t take too long.”

Ceremony? Oh, for the love of … “I hate all of you.”

There was a gleam of barely disguised schadenfreude in Cullen’s eyes. “Stop whining, Inquisitor. This is something you’ll have to go through.”

With friends like this, certainly. What was this going to be, anyway? “So … what do we need to do, apart from signing and publishing the new Charter?” She eyed the throne. “And what’s the throne for?”

Leliana’s grin was slightly less murderous than usual. “We had to commission some poor grad student to go digging through the archives to figure out how this is supposed to work. You see, the Inquisition was established under a bull of the late Divine. That makes you the new grand master and sovereign of a religious military order, a prince of the Chantry. As such, you’re pretty much on par with any regular head of state, at least by precedence – and back when people were still founding religious military orders, say before the Fourth Blight, that meant you get an enthronement ceremony.”

“Wait.” Bethany looked at Cullen. “Does that mean the Knight-Vigilant gets a coronation or something?”

“Er, no. You see, if I remember my lessons right, even under the Nevarran Accords the templars – and the first Inquisition before it – were still an independent body, just one that was theoretically supposed to be subservient to the Sunburst Throne. That means we had our own thing going, in a lot of ways.”

“Alright, I think I get it.” Bethany cast a pleading look around. “But … it’s the Dragon Age! Surely we don’t need to do all this stuff. Isn’t it enough to just … I don’t know, put out a press relief and then get back to work?”

Josephine affected a gasp. Well, so long as everyone was having fun. “Why, Inquisitor, surely you wouldn’t dream of keeping this opportunity from the world! We’ve been licking our wounds here in the mountains for far too long. We need to get back out there, and the best way to do that is with some nice pictures for tomorrow’s front pages.”

“Are you saying the press corps is already here?” That was a bit annoying. First she’d been left out of these deliberations, now the others had gone over her head as press secretary to summon the Skyhold correspondents to her own … well, enthronement, apparently. Maker, that sounded strange in her head. Still, if this meant she could better do the will of her Lady … she didn’t exactly have a choice.

“They’re waiting outside the gates, as is Mother Giselle, who agreed to perform the ceremony. We’ve got five minutes. Now, this is what you’ll need to say …”

 

 

 

As night fell over Skyhold, and the news – and, goodness, the pictures! – spread across the world, as people across Thedas looked up the name of ‘Bethany Hawke’, a bartender in a run-down part of a town a thousand kilometres north of Skyhold was closing up his dingy little bar.

Or trying to, in any case.

He had long wiped the tables and the bar, washed all the glasses, emptied the cash register and the gambling machines blinking and beeping in a corner, and had restocked all the bottles on the shelves. The owner had gone home hours ago, when business had begun to die down. They didn’t get a lot of business in here on weekdays: most of their proceeds came from regulars, old men and women and middle-aged drinking buddies with increasingly large beer guts who came in once a week to watch the football with their mates. On weekdays? If not for the occasional alcoholic or after-work outing by workers from the nearby factory, which produced axes for cars and provided jobs for at least half the town.

This weekday, evidently, was different.

The bartender, hunched over one of his astronomy textbooks, cast another surreptitious glance at his one remaining customer, stifling a yawn. The woman at the bar couldn’t be older than 35, maybe, but she looked half-dead regardless. Over the past five hours or so, he’d gotten a pretty good idea of why that was so as she had proceeded to knock back one drink after the other – starting with red wine before switching to expensive whiskey as the night went on – with nary any signs of impairment. Granted, he’d started watering down her drinks as much as he thought she wouldn’t notice, but at this point he was still considering calling an ambulance. Or the police.

No, scratch that. Fact was, he’d have thrown her out long ago if he thought she’d let him. But she had the body of a brawler; tall, somewhat stocky, with a flat chest and muscles so well-defined he could almost make them out through her stained tank top and roughed-up leather jacket when she leant forwards for another drink. She had the nose of a brawler, though – broken, with a nasty-looking old scar across the ridge. Still, he supposed, there was something fascinating about her, something that didn’t quite mesh with the ‘alcoholic street fighter’ look. Perhaps it was the way that her dull, icy blue eyes under an unkempt mop of ink-black hair occasionally caught the light, and shone with the amusement of a joke only she was party to.

Throwing her out was not an option – at least, not for a scrawny physics postgrad like himself – but neither was conversation. His few attempts at small talk had been met with monosyllables, at best. He wasn’t necessarily very _good_ at bartender talk – he’d never managed to make inquiries about the sorrows of drunks twice his age sound heartfelt – but the very least he’d come to expect from newcomers to the bar were a few lines of small talk. The odd woman hadn’t even supplied that. What she _had_ said – largely drinks orders – had been said in an unmistakeably foreign accent. He wasn’t very good with placing accents even within the country, but he was pretty sure regardless that the woman came from the south.

He checked his watch. Almost four in the morning, well past closing time. Maker, he had a lab at 10 … well, this was it. He’d either get her to leave in a taxi, or he’d call the police. Confidently, he slammed shut his textbook, walked over to her, opened his mouth and defiantly said: “Uh, so what brings you to town?”

Wow, he thought. Genius. Definitely gonna get that research grant.

To his immense surprise, however, the woman looked up from her beer for what seemed to be the first time in hours. “The road,” she finally said, her voice only slightly slurred. Maker, to have that kind of alcohol tolerance … “It was … it was on the way.”

“Way to where?”

She glanced back at her drink. “Nowhere in particular.”

Ah, yes. He wouldn’t pretend he’d heard that story before (he had only been working this job for two months), but he’d heard _about_ it, mostly on the telly. And people said you never learned anything obsessively binging soaps. “Right,” he said, nodding knowingly. “I understand. You’re on the run from something.”

The woman glared at him, and he was very proud of himself for only flinching a little. “The fuck do you care, anyway?”

He shrunk back at the undisguised hostility in her voice, but she sighed and shook her head. “Sorry. It’s been … fuck, I don’t know. I don’t really … talk to people much anymore.”

“Yeah, I get that. I barely talked to anyone for months while I was writing my master’s dissertation.”

She scoffed at that. Yeah, maybe that comparison hadn’t been all that appropriate. “I guess.” She finished her whisky and waved for him to refill her glass. Hesitantly, he complied. He offered her ice to at least slightly dilute the drink, but she turned it down. She’d been drinking the stuff straight all night. For now, she was merely swirling the spirit in her glass, staring into the amber liquid. “Yeah,” she finally said. “I guess I am running from something.”

“Anything in particular, or just existential dread? A bad relationship? The war?” He leant in conspiratorially. “The authorities?”

She gave a brief, dark chuckle. “All of the above?”

Ouch. For a moment, the bartender forgot to blink. No wonder this woman was drinking herself into an as-yet-absent stupor. Any one of them might have been bad enough; all of them together … Wait, what was that about her being on the run from the authorities? Again, he looked her over. Maker … he had no trouble believing she could kill someone, or at least seriously mess them up. “So, uh,” he made in an attempt to continue the conversation before she decided to demonstrate that skill, “tell me ‘bout … the relationship. Bad break-up? I-if you want to talk about it, that is.”

The woman looked up at him. “Kid, I hate to break it to you, but if I wanted life advise I’d go to someone with less pimples than years.”

Rude. He resisted the urge to touch his spotty skin, but could feel himself flushing, and knew that would only make his spots more apparent. “Well,” he said, somewhat snippily, and was surprised at his own audacity. And foolishness. “At least I’m not on the run.”

To his great relief, she didn’t take that in a bad way, but let loose another chuckle. This one sounded forced. “Guess not.” She took a swig of her drink. “And no, kid, I don’t want to talk about it. I made a bunch of stupid mistakes, and I paid for them, and that’s all there’s to it.”

“Right. I understand. What about the other stuff?”

Perhaps the alcohol _was_ getting to her, he thought, as she looked at them with mild befuddlement. “What other stuff?”

“Uh, like being on the run from the authorities.” He gave a sharp, nervous laugh. “I mean, you’re not gonna turn out to be some sort of Carta enforcer, right?”

She snorted. “Fuck, no. The Carta are a bunch of bumbling idiots, and I’m no one’s enforcer. Used to be, for a while, but that’s … shit, that’s years ago. Doesn’t feel as long.” She noticed his look, and added: “Don’t worry, kid. Police won’t break down your door for me, I think. No cop likes to take orders from templars, especially now.”

“You’re hunted by the templars?” he echoed. Man, that sounded pretty cool. He’d never really cared much about mages’ rights – politics was so dull when compared to quasars – but his roommate in third year had been a sociology student. She’d dragged him along to several nonviolent protests outside the university’s senate building where they chanted things like ‘make love, not Harrowings,’ ‘end the violence’ and ‘slaughter all templar dogs’. No, wait, that last one wasn’t quite right: it’d been ‘templar pigs,’ not ‘dogs.’ Still, he was pretty sure he’d never even met a mage in person … but then he didn’t get out much. Weird, he’d always thought mages were supposed to fight with, well, magics, not their fists.

“Sorta. They’re surprisingly bad at it. For the last … for a while now I’ve even started making mistakes on purpose, just to see if they’ll find me. If they’re still looking for me, that is. I hope so.” She sipped on her drink, stared past him at the bottles behind the bar. “Maker, I sure wish they still are.”

“Why … why’s that? Wouldn’t that mean you’d have to go back to a Circle?”

She looked up. “A Cir… oh, you think I’m a mage. Nah, that’s not why they’re hunting me.” A grim smile appeared on her face. “That’s my father … my sister. It’s … one of those things I could never share with them. No. I, er, I may have killed a bunch of them.”

Oh dear. And now he was right back to considering calling the police. No, bullshit. He’d never even get around to dialling before she murdered him. She could hit him over the head with a bottle. Jump over the bar and crush his skull between her thighs, which he had to admit might be quite appealing for a bit. Snap his neck when he turned around to get another bottle. Stab him with a ballpoint pen … Fuck, stop right there. Positive thoughts, as his sociologist roommate had used to say. “Er, mages?”

“Templars, you ass. Pour me another one.” Very quickly, he obliged her. Wait, had he watered down this bottle already?

The woman eyeballed him, then snorted. “You can stop freaking out any time you like. I’m not going to kill you.”

“That’s, er, very comforting. Ma’am.”

“Fuck, do I look that old? No, don’t answer that.” She sighed. “I’m not gonna kill you, kid. I’m – I’m done killing people. There just isn’t any point to it. No matter what you do … all it ends up doing is biting you in the arse.”

She said that in a voice so dejected, so utterly frustrated, that he found himself objecting almost automatically. “Don’t say that,” he scolded her, “We can’t give in to that sort of defeatism. We have to, er, keep going even when it seems …” He trailed off. Had he just advocated for his own murder? Yup, certainly seemed that way.

Luckily, the woman took it in good humour. “You should watch that mouth, kid,” she chuckled. “Someone might take you by your word.” She broke off, stared at her drink. “You know,” she then continued, “it’s my own fault. Every step of the way … I fucked up, alright? I fucked up, and then I fucked up again, and again, and again. I tried to serve my country, and I had to kill my own brother or watch him die of the Taint. Then I tried to bring some good to my newly-adopted hometown, only to spark its total descent into anarchy. I tried to protect my family …” She broke off, her lips quavering, and drank a chug of whiskey to steady herself. “Yeah, that didn’t work out either. And then, when I tried to give up and run, just … you know, carve out a bit of happiness for myself … I caved. Couldn’t do it. I just …” She choked a little. “I didn’t want to hurt her. Maker be my witness, I never wanted to hurt her. And I _know_ that it’s better for her this way, that I can’t be a part of her life, and still …”

She broke off, slumped over the bar, and he suspected she might be in tears had she any left. That would be the bad breakup, then. For an instant, he was elated to re-evaluate his own life by comparison: he might be directionless and unmotivated, with little hope of turning his degree into an academic career, but man, his life still sounded better to him than this lady’s. Almost at once, he felt guilty about this assessment. Awkwardly, he reached out to pat her shoulder, then even more awkwardly withdrew it as he remembered she could probably end him with a feather and a bit of string. “Listen,” he began, haltingly, as he tried to sort out the most obvious platitudes that came to mind. “That sucks,” was what he finally settled on. Way to be positive. “Listen, I know this doesn’t sound very helpful, but if you give up trying now, you’ll never find what you’re looking for. And, uh, you need to put it into perspective, you know? Like, think of the good things. I’m sure you’ve had some good times in your life, right?” Her expression wasn’t very auspicious. “Right? Everyone must have some good memories.”

The woman gave him a long, hard stare from dull, cold eyes, her pupils widened from the drink, but still piercing. He didn’t last very long under it before desperately looking away and shifting nervously. “Kid,” she finally said, “you’re the worst therapist I’ve ever talked to. Don’t give up your day job.”

“Right.”

She sighed. “Don’t mind me. I appreciate you trying, but I’ve heard too much bullshit like that. I know where I went wrong, I know where I fucked up, and I know what’s on my head. Most of it is, to be honest. And honestly? At this point, I’m not sure I really care anymore. Sure, it’d be nice to win for once, but I’m so used to everything I touch turning into ash in my hands …” Again, she broke off. “I’d be fine if only I hadn’t run away from her. Fine, or dead. We’d both be dead. Far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t mind that much.”

The woman put down her drink, reached into her coat, and produced a small ball of crumpled-up red silk. It must have been part of a handkerchief once, but now its edges were faded, its dye faded to a brown here and a pink there, and it was covered in old stains. Staring at it, the woman tossed it up and down in her hand. “Some old memento?” he wagered.

A lop-sided smile appeared on her lips as she answered. It didn’t quite reach all the way to her eyes. “Yeah,” she murmured, her voice choked. “She gave this to me. The week after we left Kirkwall, just before … just before I left. Said she’d torn it from a dead templar’s sash. I think she was a bit creeped out by that, but I loved it. Maker, I was so … I didn’t realise what it meant to her at the time. What it should have meant to me, if I hadn’t been so fired up back then. The battle, the fire, the smoke … the blood and the lyrium …” She paused. “Nah, that’s not it. It was all me, stupid old me not realising shit. Just one more time I disappointed her.”

“That’s not true …”

“You have no idea, kid. I was never good enough for her. She deserved so much better. So much better than me, the fucked-up human train wreck. I have no idea how I … why she picked me. I – I tried to improve. Be a better person, for her sake if not my own. It just … never worked out, I guess.”

“It’s not too late to give it another try, surely?” he suggested. Truth be told, she had a point, he had no idea. His last relationship had, of course, been a steamy affair with a ruggedly handsome elf from the chemistry department, and it had ended very well, thank you very much. Except the guy may have been ten years older than him with a neckbeard and bad breath, he may have been a jerk, and the relationship had been with his dog at a party. It may also have been not very steamy and it may have ended in slobber all over his leg. But otherwise, his love life was fine, and he had no real experience to base his advice on.

“Thanks, kid, but you’re wrong. That ship has sailed.” She issued a deep sigh, looked away. When she spoke again, her voice was lowered, strained. “I don’t even know where she is right now. I don’t know whether – whether it was any use to leave her. She might not be safe, even without me around. I’m – I’m _hoping_ that, somehow, I’d know if something was wrong, but … well, pretty sure the universe doesn’t work like that.”

“So … say you learned where she was, today. Would you go back to her?”

The woman stared into her glass, for a long time. Finally, she murmured: “No. It’s better this way. I’d only hurt her again.”

He didn’t know what to respond to that. It was – he wasn’t sure what to call it. He didn’t even know the woman’s name, or that of her lost love, and still he couldn’t help but emphasise. He already knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t make his lab in a couple of hours one way or the other. After this night, he needed a good sleep, and possibly a strong drink himself.

Actually, that last bit sounded like a pretty good idea. He’d put it on her tab, she wouldn’t – no, that would just be mean. With a sigh, he got out another whiskey glass and poured himself a few fingers, then filled up the woman’s drink, emptying the bottle. She chuckled, he shrugged. “Well … to better tomorrows, I guess.”

“Good luck with that. Cheers.” She kicked back the whiskey in one go, and he felt obliged to do the same. Fuck, this was stronger than he’d anticipated, and he had to cough at the sudden sharpness.

“Seriously, kid?”

Humiliated, he righted himself. “I, er, I’ll go fetch another bottle.” He turned to leave, then returned to grab the remote and turn on the TV over the bar. It felt like the right thing to do: he almost feared the woman might try to hurt herself, if left alone to her thoughts. “I’ll be right back.”

He grabbed his keys and hurried downstairs, into the bar’s cellar. It was damp and dark, as always, and he had to find the light switch by touch. Now, where did they keep the whiskey his guest had been swigging all night … Finally, he found it, grabbed one bottle – no, better make it two, but then he’d definitely send her home in a cab, scary murderer or not – and ran back up the stairs with two heavy square bottles of expensive spirits under his arms. “I’m back!” he called out over the sounds of the TV.

There was no reply.

When he stepped back into the bar, the woman was gone. He could only just make out the screeching of tyres on the street outside, and the roar of an engine. A thick wad of bank notes lay on the bar, by the looks of it far more than she’d actually drunken. She hadn’t taken the time to count out the exact amount, clearly, or left him a massive tip. “Well,” he murmured as he put down the bottles, “this is weird.”  What could possibly have prompted to flee like this? Police? No, he didn’t hear any sirens. Silly thought.

He glanced up at the TV and had to admit he was surprised by what he saw. He didn’t pay much attention to current affairs – after the depressing clusterfuck of 9:41, he wasn’t taking any chances with 9:42 – but he was pretty sure he’d have noticed a societal regress to the middle ages. On some sort of throne, in front of what looked like one of those windows in really old chantries, stood a woman in a black and red military-looking uniform, a sword at her side. The subtitle read: _Hawke sworn in as inquisitor_ , whatever that meant. Wait, wasn’t Hawke some sort of mage terrorist? He glanced in the direction of the door, then returned to the screen, which was showing a close-up of a rather familiar-looking woman with dark hair and a heart-shaped face, who was giving some sort of speech. It was only a brief clip, but as she went on, she visibly became more confident. _“… too long, chaos and violent fanatics have been destroying our way of life. This is why I pledge to you that, as Inquisitor, I will not rest until we have restored order to Thedas, brought the abhorrent monster that claimed so many innocent lives at Haven to justice, and established a new deal for my fellow mages that protects both their rights and the safety of non-mages. I know that the challenges facing us may seem insurmountable. It’s certainly seemed that way to me, at times. But now I know – for a fact – that we are not alone in this fight. Millions of Thedosians of all walks of life stand with us, ready to take action. And, what’s more … Andraste is with us. Andraste is with us! She has blessed me as her Herald, and She fights with us!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas really is using the oldest of Ancient Elven Techniques (TM): judicious mindfuckery.
> 
> I'm probably exaggerating how easy the reconstruction of Skyhold is, but if there's one thing the Inquisition doesn't lack right now, it's manpower. 
> 
> POLITIQUOU is a thinly-veiled expy of POLITICO, which is a cool site that you should all spent 10 hours a week reading, like me.


	10. Your flight was smooth I hope

If it wasn’t for the good offices of Josephine, Bethany might have been lost here.

Even as works were still going on back at Skyhold, and Inquisition forces scattered idling around the continent, and even as Inquisitor Hawke was rapidly becoming a household name on the airwaves and on the Internet, she found herself not taking the measure of her new responsibilities, but rather with a champagne flute in hand, surrounded by serious-looking people in expensive suits, awkwardly admiring the floral arrangements on the ground floor of the grand hotel’s largest ballroom.

No one had approached her, so far: journalists were not allowed on the ground floor of the main venue, only in the galleries and the adjoining press offices, and the other attendees around her didn’t seem to know quite what to make of her. Josephine, at least, was always in their midst, busily chatting and chugging expensive wine, so that Bethany could suppose that maybe the other attendees had found her a more approachable partner. Or perhaps they were simply wary of meeting the person whose appearance had shook, to hear Josephine say it, shaken the world stage so hard the conference had been delayed by almost a month until the dust of Haven settled.

She glanced over at the stage, where some of the final preparations for the formal opening ceremony of the Conference were still going on: flower arrangements righted, lights and microphones tested, cameras readied. Before becoming Inquisitor, Bethany had never even heard of the Minrathous International Security Conference, but to hear the others (now, she supposed, her _advisors_ ) tell it, it was one of the most important events of the political year. Unlike formal summits, they had explained, the Conference was held in a markedly informal context. The main stage was, of course, open to the press, and briefing rooms were available throughout the hotel for those who wished to engage more closely with the media, but most of the side events—debates, panels, lectures and workshops—were held under the Rainesfere House rule: everything that was said could be used or publicised by those who heard it, but never the identity of attendees or—crucially—who had said what. This way, ministers and officials otherwise forced to toe their government’s line were freed, and a better understanding of all parties could be reached than was possible in summits and meetings that were, if not already public, minuted and subject to transparency rules. It sounded a bit shady to her, but—as Josephine had pointed out—if the rules of the gentlemen’s game that was international security prevented conflicts from boiling over and wars from breaking out, what price was a bit of secrecy? She’d had to concede the point.

Now, however, she wished that the event _was_ open to the press: by now, she knew how to deal with journalists. Anything was better than standing in the corner with a half-empty flute of champagne in her hand, admiring potted plants.

“Inquisitor Hawke,” a gravelly, aged tenor said behind her, in a sophisticated Kirkwaller accent. “It’s been a long time.”

Surprised, she turned around. “Viscount Dumar.” She remembered too late to bow, then remembered that, as inquisitor, she was apparently on equal footing with the head of state, and brought her bow to an early end. “My lord,” she lamely offered instead.

The viscount scoffed. He looked older than on TV, it struck her. Older, too, by far, than the last time they had met in person—the early hours of the morning after the Battle of the Gallows. Sherry in the viscount’s office, looking out over the burning city, their limbs still aching from the fight. “You need not bow to me, young lady. Even if you weren’t Inquisitor and saviour of us all, you are a mage. And a Circled mage bows to no one but her Maker, yes?”

She had to smile at that. The old paradigms were back. “That’s the theory, yes. What, er, what brings you to Minrathous?”

The viscount gave a disgruntled shrug. “Someone from Kirkwall had to go, right? Last year, Commander Vallen went—you know her, of course. This time, though, she’s busy keeping a close eye on the Accord forces. Have you been keeping in touch?”

Bethany found herself avoiding his eyes. She’d never known either of her own grandfathers, but somehow she suspected this was how grandfathers felt like: always slightly too personal for comfort, just persistent enough to make sure you didn’t want to deal with  them more regularly than the calendar of family holidays dictated. “Not … not exactly,” she admitted. “After we … after I left Kirkwall, I had to break off contact with my friends. Safety, you understand.” That wasn’t the whole truth, she knew, and she knew that Viscount Dumar knew, too. Still, he did not press the point.

“She speaks quite highly of you.” He took her aside, and together they strolled down the colonnade lining the main floor. “Commander Vallen believes the Inquisition might do well to consider establishing a more permanent presence in Kirkwall, and I am inclined to agree.”

“That’s a new one. Most of the governments we’ve talked to haven’t been too eager to host us.”

“Can you blame them? The Inquisition represents the biggest unknown on the map these days, bigger even than Protoarchon Calpernia or the war in Orlais. The former may not become archon for decades, if ever, considering Radonis’ age and good health. The latter has been going on for the better part of a year now and doesn’t look to be ending any time soon. But the Inquisition? You claim to stand for order, but you also constitute the biggest upset to the established order in decades. Your very title, oh Herald of Andraste, is a bomb under the very foundations of the Chantry. And your forces are a paramilitary army of fanatics and dreamers bearing no allegiance to anyone but you and the Maker. No wonder the governments you deal with aren’t more accommodating.”

“But you are,” she pressed. “Why?”

“Frankly, inquisitor? Kirkwall hasn’t been served well by the established order. Maker knows I’m no rabble-rouser, but at this point the only option for restoring the peace and tranquillity that I’m told Kirkwall used to know in ancient times to the streets of our city might very well be fundamentally changing the rules of the game.” He paused, thoughtfully. “Well, that and judicious application of violence, of course. But I am happy to report the Accord’s occupying forces—pardon, the ‘Allied Marches Kirkwall Peacekeeping Force’—is doing plenty of that on its own.”

“I didn’t realise it was so bad. I thought the Accord troops were there to help keep the peace—win back the city from the gangs.”

“So they claim. Some of them may even believe it. There are still some idealists left in Starkhaven, even after Commissioner-General Vitry fell into her coma. Truth is, though, the Accord’s much-vaunted ‘solidarity’ and ‘Marcherite values’ don’t seem to hold much these days. Helping Kirkwall help herself isn’t very popular in the other member states’ electorates, but apparently robbing my city of all it’s worth is. The worst thing is that the Accord troops simply have no idea how to conduct a peacekeeping operation in such a volatile situation. Not a day goes by that Commander Vallen doesn’t bring some new grievance before me—firefights between allied soldiers and the better gangs, the ones that are fighting the worst of the lot. Abuses by Accord soldiers, injuring guardsmen or terrorising the innocent people of my city. All three of them, anyway.”

Bethany bit her lip. When they had first come to Kirkwall, all those years ago, the city had been in bad shape, she knew. But it had never been _this_ bad. Between the gangs fighting over Lowtown and the city guard, there had yet existed a sort of uneasy equilibrium, which meant the citizens lived largely undisturbed lives so long as they paid protection and didn’t stick their noses in things that were not their affairs. When they had come in though … Marian had sought to change all that. _I will make this city fit for you to live in, Bethany_ , she had told her one night at the docks. And, indeed, within the better part of a year—by an explosive mix of magic, connections to the City Guard, clever alliances, and even more clever breaking of these alliances—Marian’s unnamed gang had risen to the top of the heap. Lesser gangs had sworn allegiance to her sister in return for a cut, and what they took was invested back into Lowtown. For a while, it had seemed to work just fine.

Then, the disastrous expedition to the Deep Roads had come. Her gang and the uneasy alliances it had forged had not survived Marian’s withdrawal into Hightown and drink, and soon Lowtown was again embroiled in a bitter war of all against all; except this time all the rules were off. And once the templars, too, had been driven from the city (to hear the media report it) the city of Kirkwall had descended into near total anarchy, with the City Guard, Gendarmes and the Vinmark Rangers holding on to only a small area of Hightown until massive reinforcements from the neighbouring Accord members arrived. In short—and this realisation pressed heavily on her all of a sudden—the present state of Kirkwall was in no small part her own fault.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as if that could help. She’d pray for Kirkwall, see how that worked. It was still odd to solicit the Maker for aid, even now that she had been chosen as the Herald of Andraste.

“Don’t be. You have your own problems to worry about, and if the Inquisition were to turn its eyes towards our city …” The viscount trailed off, a hopeful look in his eyes.

She smiled. “I’ll see what we can do.”

“I ask nothing more. Now, tell me, how is your sister?”

“My sister,” she echoed blandly. The smile fell off her face as quickly as it had appeared. Oh, right, Marian had at some point mentioned that Viscount Dumar had offered her his coronet. An unorthodox choice, to be sure, not that she of all people could criticise that.  “I don’t … we’re not in contact, I’m afraid.”

The viscount tutted. “Always a tragedy when families are torn apart. She always talked very highly of you, you know. So does Commander Vallen. Approaching you here was her idea. She says to phone her, by the by. I believe her exact instructions were to physically compel you to ring her up, but considering that I am a frail old man, I think we can dispense with that, hm? Do make sure to get in touch, though.”

“I … of course. I will.” Truth be told, she could no longer think of an excuse not to get back in touch with her one-time friends, at this point. There was no hiding for the Herald of Andraste.

In a grandfatherly kind of way, the viscount patted her shoulder. “Good. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I see the foreign minister of Nevarra over there …”

He left her, but now that the ice had been broken she was approached, in quick succession, by a series of other functionaries: Antivan ministers, Tevene think tank analysts, Orlesian generals, Anders arms industry lobbyists, Marcher diplomats, Fereldan spies … they went by in a flurry of names and faces she could not possibly have remembered just an hour later. People from all over the world, even those that had yet remained untouched by rifts, seemed to want nothing more than to shake her hand and take selfies with her. Some of their names—she knew not which—she thought she recognised from the briefings Josephine and Leliana had treated her to, but the vast majority of them she had never heard of. Observing Josephine, however—who was doing her own fair share of meeting and greeting attendees to the conference—revealed that, apparently, some of the people she’d never even heard of were more important than those she had heard of, no matter their titles. When she later took Josephine aside to ask about that, the diplomat merely smiled. “Every institution, from the imperial Orlesian government to the smallest think tank, has a public face. Often, that public face isn’t what really matters. Ministers come and go, and so do their policies: the civil servants who enforce them and the academics who form them rarely do. If you want to effect real changes, you need to deal with every layer of the political machinery.” Her smile widened into a conspiratorial smirk. “Besides, never suspect that what you can see is all that’s going on. See the gentleman in the robe over there? That’s Galla Petrovianus, Officially, he’s just a staffer in Magister Albinos’ office and the husband of Alexis Petrovianus, who’s the CEO of Andratex Group, a minor megacorp. But it’s an open secret that last month, he brought down the provincial government of Seheron with a phone call. He controls some sixty votes in the Imperial Senate, which makes him the kingmaker on most bills.”

“Wait. If he’s just a staffer, how is he so powerful?”

“That’s the thing. _Nobody really knows._ Maybe it’s just an image he’s cultivated—maybe he’d crumble if anyone could bring up the courage to test him. Maybe he’s got dirt on people. Even Archon Radonis isn’t keen to put him to the test anytime soon.”

Why was it that every time she thought she was getting a grip on the Inquisition’s political situation, Josephine somehow managed to prove her wrong? “I have no idea where we’d be without you,” she admitted, in all honesty.

The diplomat waved the praise aside. “Oh, pish posh. It’s all a matter of reading the right things and talking to the right people. Anyone could do it. All it takes …” She broke off, as her eyes were drawn towards the main entrance, where a crowd had gathered. For what seemed to Bethany like minutes, the thunderstorm of camera flashes obscured the entrance.

“All rise for His Serene Excellency the Archon, and the Right Honourable Lady Protoarchon!”

By her arm, Josephine dragged her towards the pair. As they got closer, led by Josephine expertly fighting her way forward through the throng of people, Bethany could make out the freshly-elected protoarchon, still seemingly in campaign mode, casting radiant toothy smiles all around and shaking hands through the cordon of templar bodyguards ringing around her and the archon. She was dressed all in black, as these Tevene politicians tended to be: above a black pinstripe suit with a closed-neck, high-collared jacket, she wore a stiff black silk robe, dramatically flared at the hips, that to Bethany looked rather plain compared to the heavy robes laden with gold brocade and lyrium runes still worn in the south, by Circle officers at highly ceremonious occasions. Actually, it compared rather well, and the high collar of the robe elegantly framed a sharp-featured pale face topped by a severely-braided head of blonde hair, and the image was completed by a smile that bespoke easy confidence, although it was readily apparent that scowls came easier to her.

Behind her, however, Archon Radonis wasn’t shaking hands. He was seething with barely disguised fury. “Radonis campaigned against her,” Josephine hissed by way of explanation. “Calpernia has pledged to dismantle most of Radonis’ achievements after his death. She seems to stand against everything he’s spent his entire political career fighting for; ran a populist campaign based on railing against the ‘establishment.’ This is only the second time since the election that they’ve been in the same room together—there’s a prevailing belief in political circles that Radonis would rather throw the empire into a constitutional crisis than see her succeed him on the Obsidian Throne. Some people are even expecting an assassination attempt on her.”

Well, she couldn’t say she was too surprised. That was the sort of thing they did in Tevinter, wasn’t it? She kinda wished Dorian would have been able to join them. It would have been interesting to hear his perspective. Even so—looking at that earnest face—it seemed utterly unwarranted. Maker, the protoarchon couldn’t be much older than herself. “But she’s only just been elected …”

“And her enemies want to make sure she is never crowned Archon. Now, let’s go and shake hands.”

Josephine deftly took them to the front of the throng. The bodyguard templars had withdrawn to a slight distance, giving their charges space while staying close enough to interfere immediately. “Your Serene Excellency, Josephine Montilyet of the Inquisition. And may I introduce to you Lady Inquisitor Hawke?”

“Ah, yes, the _Herald of Andraste._ ” The Archon’s handshake was firm and cool, but he regarded her with something between bemusement and a sneer from beneath the plain silverite circlet around his brow. His features were aristocratic, his jet-black beard perfectly trimmed and his expensive robes unblemished black; his voice was frosty. “No doubt we’re keeping you from important business. How fares the Maker?”

She could not help but bristle at the question. She’d seen plenty of mockery online and in the media, but so far none to her face. In all fairness, Bethany could not blame the doubters—she might not have believed herself, if she knew not better—but that did not make this any less rankling. Since she could not think of any reply that wasn’t snide, and alienating the second-most powerful head of state in the world did not seem a good idea to her, she merely answered, quite stiffly, that she was looking forward to future cooperation with His Serene Excellency’s government and that the Inquisition would be happy to assist with any problems that might arise.

Then, they each moved on. “You could at least have made an effort,” Josephine whispered to her. “No matter, I’ll chat him up later. Ah, my lady protoarchon, congratulations on your victory. I am …”

Calpernia broke her off. “Lady Montilyet.” Her smile widened, revealing a prominent gap between her front teeth. “It’s a pleasure. I am a great admirer of your work. What you’ve accomplished so far has been no small feat. We all look forward to what the future will hold for the Inquisition.” She left Josephine reduced to almost a stammer by this unexpected charm offensive. “And you must be the Inquisitor, Enchanter Hawke. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Bethany managed a flustered smile. “Uh, good things or bad things?”

“Both, and every story more astonishing than the one before. I’m curious to find out which are true.”

She had to laugh, only half wondering just what kind of stories the protoarchon was referring to. “What if all of them are?”

“Well, I suppose it’s possible that you slew two Archdemons, stared down a pride demon and invented the cuckoo clock—but it does seem a bit unlikely.” Calpernia’s lips twitched upwards. “You should google yourself some day, Inquisitor. You wouldn’t believe half the things the Internet would have us think you’ve done.”

“Oh? Might be interesting to see. I, er, I can’t say I’ve followed your campaign all that closely, but I suspect you’ve got your fair share of unbelievable stories, as well.”

Calpernia gave a toothy laugh. “Like you wouldn’t believe. I’m happy to say my supporters are at least as creative as my detractors, though. I wouldn’t be here today, otherwise. What about you? Will you be speaking at the conference?”

“Oh, goodness, no.” Bethany could not stifle a nervous giggle. “I, er—no, I don’t know the first thing about security policy. Josephine—Lady Montilyet—will be giving a short talk later, and I’m just here to listen and learn. Hopefully.”

“I’m sure you’re selling yourself short, Inquisitor. All these … experts” (she dismissively waved around) “have spent decades forming our policy, the Orlesians’ policy, and look where it got us. I think the people of Thedas have had enough of them. But you, you and me, we’ve got a unique perspective on things, don’t we? I daresay it’s one of many things we have in common.”

“Er—like—like what?” To her surprise, Bethany found herself drawn in by this woman, and for the life of her she could not figure out why. They’d only met less than a minute ago, and had barely talked beyond small talk in a crowded hotel ballroom, surrounded by bodyguards and conference-goers. Calpernia was good-looking, she supposed, very dapper, but the attraction she felt was not a physical one. She exuded an air of power, in more ways than one, but that wasn’t it, either. Bethany had spent plenty of time around powerful people recently, and few had filled her with anything more than dispassionate respect. The only person who came even remotely close—that would have to be the late Divine Justinia. But that had been different: Calpernia had none of Justinia’s air of holy benevolence. Maybe it was something else. Maybe the protoarchon simply spoke with such conviction that Bethany could not help but believe in the rightness of her words.

Either way, Calpernia’s smile was intoxicating. “We’ve both overcome great odds to rise to where we are now, haven’t we? You were—what’s the word?—an apostate, I believe. Meanwhile I was indentured to the Parable Group for sixteen years.”

That was one of the few things even she’d heard about during the election campaign. _The first archon who’d been indentured._ Her grandparents had been born slaves, before the Great War. “You can’t compare that,” she objected. “I can’t even think—can’t even conceive of how hard that must have been.”

The protoarchon gave a surprisingly cavalier shrug. “I had it relatively easy, at least. Benefit of being a human mage with the good sense to sell herself to one of the smaller megacorps, I suppose.” She nodded towards Bethany’s hip. “That’s a Parable Mark 9 Defender, isn’t it? I was part of the team that developed the first iteration of that staff. The only difference was that my colleagues went home at the end of the day. And that I’ve still got the tattoo on my shoulder.”

Bethany suspected there was more to it than that, but judging from the stiffness of the smile on Calpernia’s lips, it wouldn’t do to press her on this subject. “A-anyway, that’s all in the past now. You’re to be archon. That is … well, it’s amazing.”

“ _If_ Radonis predeceases me, at least, which seems increasingly unlikely these days. If not, well, I’ll have to run for re-election in ten years’ time. Until them, I’m afraid I’m as powerless as anyone.” The smile returned to her face. “But please, I shouldn’t be boring you with this. You know, I’ve actually been wondering—in your paper on classifying common gravitational spells in veluscopy, you suggested using a …”

“Hang on, hang on. You read my article?”

Calpernia nonchalantly shrugged. “I’m a subscriber to the _Journal of Force Magic_ , although my specialty lies in primal spells. I rarely get to read anymore these days. It was a good paper, though.”

She couldn’t help blushing. For a couple of weeks after getting her first and only paper through peer review, she’d checked almost every day if anyone had cited her (no one ever had). At some point, about the time she’d started her MCIS training, she’d forgotten about it entirely. It was—good to hear, if somewhat embarrassing, that her efforts back then hadn’t gone entirely unnoticed. “I … thank you. That’s very kind of you. Eh, what about you, then? You’ll be speaking at the conference, right?”

“True, but not until the fourth day. Right now, to be frank, I’m only here for the opening ceremony. _Radonis_ asked me to be here.” She scowled. “Which means he wants me there to mock and humiliate in front of the cameras. He’s about to take the stage, by the looks of it.” All of a sudden, Calpernia turned back to Bethany. “No doubt the press already have cameras lining up to take reaction pics of me. After all the lies they told about me during the campaign, I think I’d rather deny them the pleasure. Inquisitor, would you like to accompany me? I daresay we could have some fascinating discussions over coffee at my offices.”

“I, I, I, er ...” Bethany wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a flirt or just sounded like one to her. “Er, I don’t know, I-I really should talk to Josephine first …”

“Oh, come now. You’re her boss, not the other way around. Besides, I’m sure we can find some way to aid imperial-Inquisition relations without her help, don’t you agree?”

Okay, that _definitely_ was flirting. Or was it? Bethany had gotten pretty much all of her experience in that regard from movies. “Uh,” she said. Part of her was pushing her to say no: it was a foolish idea, and potentially dangerous, and she’d never hear the end of it from Josephine. And—and this sort of, er, private meeting with the designated head of state of a foreign power could in no way work out well for anyone involved, right?

The other thirty-five parts of her were swooning, blushing furiously and clamouring for her to say yes. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Splendid. I have a car waiting outside, shall we?”

One of the nearby templars spoke into her sleeve. “Spearmint is on the move, prepare the car …”

Half-entranced, Bethany let herself be led out of the ballroom. Lavellan was waiting in the lobby with some other aides, and silently filed in behind them when they walked past. So did five members of Calpernia’s security detail and aides. She was pretty sure this wasn’t how illicit trysts were supposed to happen, and didn’t quite know whether to be relieved or disappointed by that. _Good grief, Bethany, you’re acting like a teenager_  …

More police, camera flashes and a small crowd of idling onlookers and protesters awaited them outside the hotel. When they saw Calpernia, an almost frenzied cheer came up, and the protoarchon gave them a languid wave and grin.

One of the dark-suited templars guarding the stairs leading up to the hotel lobby approached them, having been forewarned through his earpiece. “There’s a problem with your car, Lady Protoarchon. We’re checking it now, you’ll have to wait inside for your own safety until we can get it fixed.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Hard to tell, ma’am. Upwards of an hour, probably. We didn’t expect you’d leave so soon.”

Calpernia nodded in the direction of a massive, sleek black limousine parked at the foot of the stairs. It was hard to miss; it was easily the largest and shiniest car Bethany had ever seen. She tentatively reached out with her magic, only to find that it firstly weighed at least eight tons, and secondly rebuffed all her attempts to magically examine it. The chassis must be positively lined with dweomer runes. “No need. I’ll take Atlas One. Radonis will likely be a few hours, at the least.”

“Uh, ma’am, that’s the archon’s car.”

“And it’s identical to mine, Atlas Two, in every respect. The only difference is that he gets to fly the imperial banner on his bonnet and mine just has the flag. If it makes you feel better, you may take that down.”

The templar looked ready to object, but a punishing glare from Calpernia shut him up and quickly return his attentions to his sleeve. “Right. Uh, get Spearmint’s motorcade ready to move on Stagecoach …”

That having been settled, one of the templars in Calpernia’s detail opened the back doors for them. Over the past few months, Bethany had been in her share of fancy cars, but this one had them all beat. When she sank into the leather seats, she felt more comfortable than at her desk back at Skyhold, and could stretch out her legs entirely without even reaching halfway across to the opposite seats.

Calpernia sat by her side, casually crossing her legs. “Where are we going?” Bethany asked her.

“My campaign headquarters. They’re not far from here. The protoarchon doesn’t have her own offices provided by the government, so we had to extend our lease for at least the next year.”

“What happens in a year?”

The protoarchon’s grin was almost wolfish. “Who knows,” she said. “There might be a vacancy in the Palace of Dreams by then.”

“Oh.” Bethany looked away. The car’s engines started, but only a faint hum could be heard inside the cabin. The blackened windows looked to be several centimetres thick. For a moment she wondered if all this security was truly necessary; then she remembered what she’d just heard. Charming and eloquent or not, this was still Tevinter. “I, er, I must confess I barely paid any attention to the election. I … think I may have mentioned that before.”

If she had, Calpernia didn’t show it, merely smiled wistfully. “I can’t blame you. It was ugly. Still—there’s something exhilarating about being out there on the trail that you just don’t get once you’ve won. The excitement of the crowds, the long hours as you tour the country … and always having your enemy right in front of you. It was hard, and ugly, and costly, but I relished it.”

“I can imagine. Recently, I’ve been so busy with setting up at Skyhold, dealing with politics … I guess it’s easy to lose sight of what you’re actually doing. When you’re not down there fighting in the trenches.”

Amused, Calpernia pursed her lips. “Hmm. Bit more of a martial metaphor than I’m used to, but fair’s fair. Now,” the added, turning to face her, “about that paper of yours …”

They talked arcana for a couple of minutes as the car and its small motorcade of police and aides snaked its way through the congested streets of central Minrathous. Bethany was very glad that the Inquisition’s delegation had taken a helicopter from the airport directly to the hotel this morning. Finally, the car stopped in front of a tall, nondescript red brick office building. Templars opened their doors for them, keeping a watchful eye on the protestors and fans awakening from their hibernation. By the looks of it, they’d set up camp on the pavement permanently.

They rode the lift to the fourteenth floor, which was listed as belonging to _Calpernia for Archon_. It read the same thing next to the buttons for the thirteenth and fifteenth floor. Once arrived, the lift doors opened directly onto a large open office space—indeed, it seemed like the better part of the whole floor was one whole office, although it was difficult to see through the avalanche of green and white campaign paraphernalia covering the office. Paper streamers of Calpernia’s campaign logo hang from the ceiling, the walls were covered in colourful post-it notes, photos from the campaign trail, and posters with Calpernia’s face in a dozen different configurations. Even the ubiquitous beanbags came in shades of green and white. A small host of unrealistically attractive and trendy-looking twenty-somethings were roaming the office in plaid shirts and tight jeans with expensive laptops and campaign-branded coffee mugs. Bethany had never looked anything like that at that age. No one she’d ever known had looked anything like that at that age.

When they entered, a small cheer went up. A couple of people came up to Calpernia with questions. An elven girl actually asked Bethany to let her take a selfie with her, and before she could even ask what for the girl had done so. “You have fans, Inquisitor,” Calpernia laughed when she noticed her embarrassment. “Don’t be so surprised. You’ve been saving more lives in a month down there than I’ve been in two years of campaigning. Well, that and everyone here’s a bit obsessed with politics. POLITIQUOI receives more clicks here every day than any other non-Tevene website.”

“She’ll be so disappointed when it turns out only like ten people in the world recognise my face.”

The protoarchon laughed, then led them to a large corner office filled with sunlight. It was like stepping into a different world: the office was almost unnaturally tidy, with not a pencil out of place. A huge, thick Qunari rug lay on the floor, inviting one to take off one’s shoes. Whoever had picked out the interior had gone for a sort of synthesis: behind an elegantly curved steel desk topped with blackened glass stood an old-fashioned, richly carved chair made from some tropical redwood and backed with cream-coloured leather. Bookshelves took up the wall to their right, packed to the brim with well-thumbed volumes bearing eclectic titles like _The Material Science of Modern Staffmaking, Qarinus Review of Constitutional Law, 9:20-29,_ or _An Imperial Lake: the Nocenian and the Nocenian World in the Age of Vius II_. The wall of books was interrupted in its centre by a large TV screen apparently permanently tuned to a news channel, though the sound was muted. In one corner, a classic chaise-longue, an armchair and an ottoman around a low table with a silver tea service and kettle looked very inviting, and it was there that Calpernia led her.

With a wave of her hand, the protoarchon brought the water to the boil. “What can I offer you?” she asked her, indicating the chaise-longue. “I know it’s just a stereotype, but I’d imagine you’d go for tea rather than coffee.”

Bethany chuckled lightly. “That particular stereotype is actually true. Sure, I’ll take tea.”

“Have you ever tried Seheron mint tea?” Calpernia continued. She added precisely two spoonfuls of loose tea leaves to the pot, then poured the boiling water on them from an almost adventurous height. “When I was … working on the Defender project out of Alam, we used to drink at least a dozen glasses every day. I got quite a taste for it.”

“Hence the code name.”

The protoarchon chuckled. “The templars’ choice, I’m afraid. They think it’s funny. So, will you be having any?”

“Sure. It sounds delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had it.” So far, this was a lot more innocuous than she had expected. They weren’t even talking politics, let alone—other. Stuff. Part of her was disappointed, but mostly she was relieved. This was moving very quickly, too quickly even to see where things were headed.

She looked around the office as the tea simmered. A framed black-and-white photograph behind the desk that she hadn’t noticed before caught her eye. It showed a dark-skinned elf woman in what looked like some sort of military uniform, seated in front of a Tevinter flag. She seemed vaguely familiar.

The protoarchon had followed her gaze. “Ah. Recognise her? That’s Faleria Lanaris.”

“The, uh, the spationaut?”

“Hm. We generally call them ‘astronauts’ up here, but yes.” A gleam appeared in Calpernia’s eyes. “One of the imperium’s greatest heroes. She rose from nothing to become the first person to go to space and orbit our planet.”

“As I recall, she murdered her way up through the ranks.”

“And who among us wouldn’t do the same? Imagine what she must have felt, every step along the way. The pride of becoming the first elven pilot in the empire. Then becoming a test pilot for the air force after the war; forcing her way up, until she was the only one still alive qualified to pilot _Aspera I._ Can you imagine her, looking down at our planet for the first time? At that moment, everything—the war, the camps, the humiliations—must have been worth it.”

Somewhat awkwardly, she shifted in her seat. From what she’d learned about the Great War at school, that seemed to be pushing it. Then again, perhaps Tevinters had a unique perspective on that. “I suppose.” Still, the fire burning in Calpernia’s grey eyes was certainly infectious. “I, er, I suppose you’ll be looking to put money back into your space programme?”

The protoarchon’s response was uncharacteristically muted. “Perhaps. It would be nice to go back to the moon, or even further. For now, though, there are more down-to-earth priorities we need to focus on.” Her lips thinly twitched. “Pardon the pun.”

“What sorts of priorities?”

Calpernia leant forward. “For starters, the attack that destroyed Haven. I’ve already got a pretty clear idea of what happened. And from what I’ve been hearing from trusted sources, your best lead goes right here, to Tevinter.”

Oh. Right to the throat, then. “In a sense,” she said, trying to be conclusive. How much had she heard? Josephine had counselled her against announcing the existence of Corypheus, for the time being, largely on account of the panic that might result. There was the concern that the ancient magister might be carrying the Blight, but Cullen had reasoned that a hulking monstrosity covered in red lyrium would seek to stay out of side for the time being, limiting the risk of exposure. In the meanwhile, they’d reached out feelers to the Orlesian and Fereldan chapters of the Grey Wardens. They’d kept Corypheus imprisoned for ages, so if anyone knew anything about him, it would be them. Had the Wardens leaked something to Calpernia?

But the protoarchon made a dismissive gesture. “There’s no need to be coy. Imperial Intelligence knows about—what’s his name? Corypheus. The Elder One. Don’t worry, you don’t have a leak.”

“Then how did you find out?”

“Does the name Venatori mean anything to you?”

“A cult of some sort, isn’t it? Or a—a party? One of your citizens who we believe was in Corypheus’ employ, Magister Alexius, was a member. We are holding him at Skyhold until we can sort out who has jurisdiction.”

The other woman chuckled. “Well, as far as I am concerned, do with him what you will. The Venatori are a nuisance, though only a minor threat so far. Ultra-nationalists, mage supremacists, almost in the vein of Galba. According to my security briefings, we’ve had them under surveillance for some time. We found out about Corypheus when we raided one of their offices.” She paused. “I’d extend you my sincerest apologies on behalf of the empire, but I swear we had no idea he even existed until the rumours from Kirkwall reached us. That little escapade was you, too, wasn’t it?”

Bethany blushed. Almost automatically, she was going to correct her—‘my sister’s’—when she caught herself. She’d been there, too, after all. “Yeah,” she said. A shadow descended upon her face. “Did a fine job of it.”

The protoarchon shrugged. “No one could have predicted he’d survive that, inquisitor. And now you get the chance to finish the job.”

“Right. And, please, call me Bethany.”

A grin appeared on Calpernia’s face. “I’d love to, if you call me Calpernia.”

“Er, I thought you only had the one name.”

“True, and I’d like you to call me by it all the more. Now …” Calpernia rose from her armchair and, an elegant sway in her steps, moved over to Bethany’s side on the chaise-longue. It was very abrupt, she thought, and told herself to stop blushing like an idiot. Just … be polite and be professional. This was foolish, and dangerous, and—it did _not_ help the matter that Bethany could not deny her attraction, or that she was flattered to even be approached by a woman as eloquent, as powerful, or as magnetic as Calpernia. But she’d only ever … with Marian, and …

Part of her mind said: _Marian isn’t here_.

And another part said: _What if you’re imagining things? You’ve got a massive crush on her and you’re imagining she’s flirting with you._

Yes, that did sound like the most likely option. Just her luck, she supposed. The suspicion was strengthened when Calpernia pulled out her phone. “Now we believe that the Venatori themselves had little to no part in the attack on Haven,” she began, scrolling through files. “They don’t have the manpower, or the know-how. But you’re still looking for the people who planted the bomb, killed the lookouts, summoned the demons—right?”

“Er, right.”

“Hmm. Now what if I told you that the Inquisition didn’t manage to recruit _all_ the mages at Redcliffe, and all the templars at Therinfal?”

Bethany’s eyes went wide as the realisation dawned on her. “Wait. Are you … are you saying it was mages who did that?” And templars, too. Why was it that the bad guys were better at cooperating than her own people? Apart from the blood magic and red lyrium, that is.

“It’s our strong suspicion. Ah, here it is.” She opened the file. It was a photograph of a lean young southern templar in uniform, seated in front of a banner and smiling into the camera. He seemed vaguely familiar. “We believe that the Venatori supply the funding for them. Tracing their bank transfers has led us to this man. You may know him. Knight-templar Ser Raleigh Samson, formerly deployed at the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. Rings a bell?”

“Faintly? I may have run into him once or twice. Cullen may have mentioned the name … I think he left the order at some point, right?”

“Right. He was cashiered and expelled for attempting to steal lyrium in 9:32—by all accounts, he’s a junkie, or used to be. Since then, he’s been living on the streets. Until Kirkwall rebelled.”

It took her a moment to connect the dots. “Red lyrium,” she suggested. “He must have gone back to the Gallows after the battle to find some and became infected.”

“That’s putting it mildly. Here, this is an artist’s impression of what he looks like today, based on eyewitness accounts.” She swiped right to another image, and for a moment Bethany thought it might be a different person altogether. His face was pale and haggard, almost skull-like, with deep-set bagged eyes and receding hair. Several teeth appeared to be missing. Most disconcerting, however, was the large protrusion in the middle of his chest, which the artist had specifically indicated with red pencil.

Bethany gasped when she saw it. “Maker’s grace, has he really got red lyrium growing out of his chest? How is he still alive?”

“Good question, but at least it makes it easy for us to track him. From what we can tell, he didn’t join the assault on Haven in person, but he almost definitely organised it. Travelling, as you may imagine, is difficult for him: he’d set off hazard detectors from here to Gwaren.”

She bit her lip. So this was the face of her enemy, the one who’d attacked Haven and forced her to kill so many—no. It was he who was responsible, he who had killed them. Corypheus’ top lieutenant … “I know this is a lot to ask, but do you have a location on him?”

Calpernia smirked. “Funny you should ask that.” She swiped over to the next file. It was a black and white map of what took her a moment to recognise as northern Orlais. “We believe Samson and his closest associates are hiding out here, near the village of Dumas-sur-Roche. Now, I don’t have any more specific details …”

“There’s no need,” Bethany replied, beaming. Justice for Haven was in reach, and they were one step closer to Corypheus. “This is the best news I’ve heard in at least a month. I’ll—I’ll talk to Leliana and Cullen. We’ll find some way to … to deal with Samson. Thank you so much … oh, I could kiss you …”

That had slipped out accidentally, but Calpernia leant back on the chaise-longue, a confident gleam in her eyes. Bethany felt strongly reminded of Marian, or at least, of how Marian had once been. “Is that so, huh?”

Furiously blushing, Bethany rowed back. “Uh, figuratively speaking, of course.”

The protoarchon made a face somewhere between mock disappointment and a laugh, but Bethany wouldn’t be able to tell which she’d been going for as someone knocked on the office door. “Ma-ma’am? There are some … some gentlepeople here to see you.”

Calpernia rolled her eyes and raised a finger. “Can this wait, Rictus? I’m …” her eye slid back to Bethany. “… in the middle of something.”

“Ma’am, they’re from the Imperial Security Council! They say they’ll only speak to you!”

There was a pause. Then: “Send them in.” Calpernia withdrew, rose to her feet, and that was the end of … whatever that had been.

The door was opened and a whole lot of brass moved in. Literally, in the case of some of them, whose chests were straining under the weight of medals and ribbons. Seven grim faces turned to Bethany in sequence, scanned her, found that she constituted no threat, and returned to Calpernia.

“Stratege Hypodoxia,” Calpernia greeted them with a raised brow. “And Strategoi Antilles, Rabis. General Faber, General Amiroutzes. Enchanter-General Agrippa. Director Perian. What, if I may ask, brings the entirety of the Imperial Security Council to my humble offices?”

The one Calpernia had addressed as Stratege Hypodoxia, a greying woman in a black navy uniform who looked to be made entirely of silverite, cast another glance towards Bethany, who avoided her steely eyes. “My lady protoarchon, Lady Inquisitor—twenty-five minutes ago, at 1252 hours, a bomb exploded underneath the Archon’s car when he was leaving the conference. He was rushed to the hospital immediately, but was declared dead a few minutes ago. We’ve instituted a media blackout, but the rumour mill is already spinning.”

There was a long moment of silence. “Excuse me,” Calpernia finally said, reached for the backrest of the armchair. “I—I need to sit down, I think.”

“We will need you to prepare an address to the nation,” Hypodoxia volunteered. “And prepare for the ceremonies. My lady proto-” The stratege stopped herself. “Pardon. Your Serene Excellenc—Archon Calpernia—the imperial armed forces are at your disposal. If we could have the room for a while, General Faber of Strategic and Orbital Command has your thaumic briefing ready …”

As a dazzled Bethany left the new archon’s office, she was struck by how lucky they’d been to switch cars with Archon Radonis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo all the politics! This was fun to write.
> 
> 1) The Minrathous International Security Conference is of course based on the Munich one, although a bit more shady. Rainesfere House is Chatham House.
> 
> 2) Galla Petrovianus is a thinly-veiled version of Jaroslaw Kaczynsky on steroids and blood magic. 
> 
> 3) The story of Faleria Lanaris (pilot, blood mage, astronaut, and all-around psychopath) is a persistent plot bunny of mine. We'll see.


	11. Kaiser und Gott

“Careful, Inquisitor. You’ll ruffle—yes, that’s good. Stay where you are. Dr Pavus, Serah Tethras, if you could budge together a little so we can fit you all in … excellent. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you would look straight into the camera and smile …”

Bethany forced herself not to blink when the camera flashed, and maintained her strained smile. This had taken longer than she had anticipated, and she had never been any good with being photographed. Her hands were clenched around the gilded armrests of the chair she had been made to sit in; she forced herself to relax them. “Very good, just a couple more … and that’s it, thank you very much.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. That was the first part of the evening defeated. Vivienne must have noticed her discomfort, for she said: “Steel yourself, dear. You must do your best to enjoy the evening, and all the rest will fall into place.”

“I’ll try.” She slipped a finger in between her collar and neck to loosen the grip her bowtie had on her, but Vivienne cruelly slapped the hand away.

“Now, now, dear. You don’t want to ruin your uniform just yet. You’ll get used to it.”

“I guess.” Originally, Bethany had wondered out loud why they couldn’t just wear their normal Inquisition uniforms and had to have special dress uniforms tailored. After all, the service uniform did include a tie. At that, Josephine and Leliana had given her a _Look_ and she had quickly realised the virtues of shutting up. Earlier today, then, she had been made to not only have her hair done, but also put on a starched white shirt and waistcoat, a black tailcoat with elaborate gold epaulets, a white bowtie and a dress sword. _You have to look presentable, after all,_ Leliana had innocently explained.

Of course, that hadn’t prevented Josephine and Leliana from reneging on their own advice. Both of them had opted for elegant, voluminous ballgowns—Josephine’s in dark blue and gold, Leliana’s in green—that advantageously framed their features and looked to be considerably more comfortable to move in. And, of course, neither of them was lugging half a kilogram of unwieldy gilded steel around on their hips. Traitors. At least the others—Cullen, Cassandra, Dorian, Varric and Solas, that is—shared in her misery, and Vivienne’s and Blackwall’s Orlesian respectively Warden uniforms looked to be quite similar in style.

Behind the photographer, Lavellan checked her phone. She was wearing the same uniform as the rest of them, but with less elaborate epaulets, no sword and an aide-de-camp’s gold aiguillette on her shoulder. “Motorcade’s here,” she announced. “We should get going.”

“Quite right. This has taken longer than I thought it would.” Tactfully, Josephine refrained from mentioning that this had in part been due to Bethany’s continual disruption of her bowtie.

She rose to her feet, and quickly they left the wood-panelled sitting room with the oil portraits of long-dead Orlesians on the walls where they had posed for the picture, and made their way downstairs to the entrance hall. The Inquisition’s representation in Halamshiral had originally operated out of a rather plain building on the outskirts of the city, but the Empress Celene’s relocation to the Winter Palace had made it considerably more central to Josephine’s operations. The local chantry, as it happened, owned a significant portion of the inner city, and had recently seen a vacancy emerge when a minor, but ancient bank had exchanged its historic premises for a more modern office building in the financial quarter. Some shrewd diplomacy later, Josephine had secured the elegant neo-classical building for use by the Inquisition’s permanent resident and their staff for a rent that was merely felonious rather than criminal.

Right now, it served as their base of operations for one of the most important events in the history of the Orlesian Empire: the 9:42 Diplomatic Ball. “I still don’t see what makes this ball so important,” Bethany asked yet again as she, Josephine, Cullen and Leliana took their seats at the back of a rented limousine with the Inquisition’s flag on the fenders. “I mean, I get that it’s a big event, but why would Gaspard be here? Isn’t he endangering himself by coming to Celene’s own palace? What does he want?”

There was a note of exasperation in Josephine’s voice. “You have to understand, Inquisitor, that the central doctrine of Orlesian foreign policy for almost a thousand years has been the translation of the empire. Some emperors have ignored it, others have fought for it, but it’s at the very centre of their self-conception of a nation. In their view, there can only be one empire at a time, and by that they understand the supreme and universal dominion of the world. At first, that empire was that of Arlathan, then Tevinter. Today, it is Orlais.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“It means that the Orlesian emperors have always considered themselves the leaders of the free world in an almost religious sense. More importantly, it means that they must be _seen_ to be the leaders of the free world, and the annual Diplomatic Ball is a key ceremony for that. All ambassadors and permanent representatives accredited to the Orlesian court are summoned to do homage to the emperor. For them, it’s the cost of doing business with Orlais. But for the Orlesians, it symbolises that the sole true empire that rules the world is theirs. If Gaspard wants to be emperor, he must be seen to have a good claim of representing that empire. So he’s there to put the ambassadors on the spot. Most foreign governments have been noncommittal on whether they support him or Celene, and neither side can be sure of foreign support. With Gaspard there in person, they will be forced to make a choice of which claimant to pay homage to first. In other words, he’s trying to escalate the situation and humiliate Celene, and that counts for more in Orlesian politics than you might think.”

“Okay, I can see that. But he’s still endangering himself. Why doesn’t Celene just have him arrested when he enters Halamshiral?”

“Because Gaspard isn’t a traitor, not really. Everyone knows he’s playing for the throne, but he’s not come out and said it. The Chalonais rebels consider him their figurehead, but so far he’s been coy about firmly committing to standing against Celene—he’s been playing it pretty cleverly, in fact. As a member of the imperial family, he can only be indicted before the Council of State, and Celene and her government know full well that there isn’t enough evidence or support to convict him of treason. If she had him arrested and put on trial now, it would be considered a considerable overreach that violates centuries of constitutional precedents. There would be an uproar even among some of her loyalists, and it would seriously weaken her position. And since Gaspard is also the highest-ranked peer of the empire, she can’t exactly disinvite him. So she’ll be looking to humiliate him, especially by securing the support of the diplomatic corps. Assemblywoman Briala, the leader of the Marcherite Labour Party, will also be important. She leads the largest opposition bloc in the National Assembly, but she’s not clearly on either side and used to be personally close to the empress. If Celene can recruit the MLP into the government coalition, that’s a major coup for her.”

“And that’s why the Starkhaven Accord are there—to broker peace. But if Gaspard isn’t officially the leader of the Chalonais faction …”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. The new Commissioner-General, Dr Hildebrandt Wormseley, is at Halamshiral, but the Accord is mostly interested in preventing further escalation. War’s not good for business, and the Accord is getting pretty antsy about what might happen if rebel groups get their hands on part of the empire’s thaumic arsenal.”

“They already have,” Bethany pointed out. “Vivienne told us as much when we met Roderick.”

“And I suspect the Accord knows that. But if there’s a chance they can contain the situation through backchannels, there’s no need to raise a panic. Either way, Grand Chancellor Roderick and Commissioner-General Wormseley intend to mediate an agreement between Celene and Gaspard. I don’t expect much will come of it; the word on the grapevine is that their sherpas are refusing to even talk face-to-face without the Accord’s negotiators acting as go-betweens. More importantly, there’s not a lot Gaspard can offer. The rebellion is about taxation, about social tension and unrest, not about him. Even if he denounces it, it will go on.”

“So they’re just hoping for the best, then? Trying to appeal to both sides’ better nature?”

“Well, it’s in their self-interest to keep things from boiling over. Armed unrest and occasional skirmishes in the Dales is one thing, but things turn complicated as soon as thaumic weapons get involved. They’re just as terrified that something might go wrong as we are.”

Bethany leant back in her seat. Again, she reached for her collar to adjust the bowtie; Leliana leant forwards and slapped her hand away like a stern mother. With an annoyed glare, she summed up what Josephine had said. “Okay, so Gaspard wants to enhance his legitimacy from appearing around foreign diplomats. Celene can’t do anything about it, but will try to humiliate him and recruit the MLP. And the Accord and the Chantry want to keep things from further escalating. That leaves us. What are we looking to get out of it?”

“Ideally? The firm support of the Orlesian Crown. With Ferelden having turned their back on us, we need a new source of funding to maintain our operations. Orlais has been noncommittal, so we’re hoping for firm assurances.”

“That’s the bare minimum we’re after, though,” Leliana pointed out. “In the long term, we would want to end the Orlesian civil war. In all seriousness, that option isn’t on the table tonight. But if what you said you saw in the future is true …”

“What _you_ said,” Bethany interrupted. “The future you told us about.”

There was a brief pause. “Very well. If what _I_ said is true, the empress will be assassinated, presumably by agents of Corypheus. There are assassination attempts against people like her all the time, of course, but an attack tonight would be the most likely to succeed. She’ll be out in the open, after all, surrounded by strangers and in full view of the television cameras. Either way, we’ll be prepared for anything. I have placed several agents in strategic segments of the palace staff, and Cullen’s people have established a perimeter around the palace.”

Bethany frowned. “Won’t that be noticed? There gotta be background checks.”

But Leliana only shrugged. “We’re sure they’ve noticed, but it’s not exactly surprising. Everyone has spies, after all. So long as ours stay away from anything too important, they’ll be tolerated.”

“Huh.” She closed her eyes. “What about the other thing? Operation Supervisor.”

Before he responded, Cullen pulled out a small plastic device, about the size of a remote, and made a sweeping gesture with it. When it didn’t seem to react in any way, he returned it to the inside pocket of his tailcoat. “We’re monitoring the compound Calpernia’s intel led us to. From what we can tell, Samson and his lieutenants are holed up inside.”

“So why haven’t we attacked yet?”

Cullen only shifted in his seat, and Josephine responded in his stead. “Legal issues, mostly. Dumas-sur-Roche lies in what might charitably be described as ‘no man’s land.’ It’s controlled neither by the government forces nor by the Chalonais rebels, but fiercely contested by both. Civil society has all but broken down. The Chantry are doing their best to provide some limited local government, but they’re stretched thin. Any unsanctioned action on our part would inflame tensions between all three sides, unfortunately. I was hoping to speak to the Defence Minister tonight, see if we can find a multilateral solution that takes out Samson while working for all parties.”

“Add to that that Ser Raleigh is a Kirkwaller, and thus a citizen of the Starkhaven Accord. It’s not a huge concern, but that’s something we’ll need to smooth over.”

Bethany nodded. “Alright. Do what you can. If we get this guy, we strike a blow against Corypheus.”

“Agreed. Now, let’s go over the details one more time …”

The rest of the drive to the palace was spent rehearsing the lessons in court etiquette Josephine had given her over the past few days. Leandra Amell had taken care to raise her children in a manner befitting their patrician heritage, despite the rather less exalted circumstances in which they had been born, but apparently genteel Kirkwall manners weren’t going to cut it at the imperial winter palace of Orlais. There was a bewildering amount of ceremonial she apparently had to learn, from specific dances and forms of address to the peculiar manner, pre-agreed upon by Josephine and the Imperial Household Ministry, in which she would have to approach the throne.

By the time their small motorcade reached the palace grounds, a vast grouping of public and private parks right near the city centre of Halamshiral, with a consequently astronomical ground value, the bowtie around her neck had faded from her mind and she no longer felt near suffocating. The sword at her side was still annoying, but she was actually starting to feel more comfortable. There was something about the uniform—perhaps it was the waistcoat, or the starched shirt front—that seemed to force her to keep herself erect, seemed to bind her together. When the door of the limousine was opened for her, she managed to step out onto the red carpet into the camera flashes of the assembled press with sure feet. She helped Josephine out of the car and Cullen did the same for Leliana, their gowns impeding their movement. Behind them, the limousine holding the rest of the Inquisition delegation was already rolling up to the red carpet.

“Well then,” Josephine said, grinning as she pulled back her long blue gloves, “let’s do this.”

A pair of imperial guards in polished steel cuirasses and helmets over bright blue uniforms leaned in to open the gate to the outermost courtyard of the palace proper for them. As soon as they stepped through it, the noise of the city and the clamouring of the press and protesters outside seemed to retreat, replaced by the rippling of a fountain, muffled laughter and conversation, and even a bit of birdsong.

“Alright,” Josephine said, turning to them as the rest of the Inquisition’s delegation entered the gardens behind them. “Now, remember what we talked about. But do try and have fun, alright? This _is_ a party, after all.”

Before Bethany could think of a suitably snippy remark, a servant in a white and black livery with gold trimmings approached them, carrying on a small silver tray a sealed envelope. “Your Worship, Mesdames, Messieurs. Welcome to the winter palace. Mme l’Inquisitrice, a note for you from a certain gentleman.”

“A certain …” She glanced at Josephine and Leliana, but neither of their faces revealed any foreknowledge. “Well, that doesn’t sound at all ominous. Thank you.” She took the envelope and unfolded it. There were only a couple of handwritten lines, rather neat and narrow: _Mme l’Inquisitrice, I would be much obliged were you to meet me on the south terrace—Chalons._ She looked up. “Chalons?” she echoed. “As in, the Grand Duke of Chalons?”

“I cannot say, Mme l’Inquisitrice, it was given to me through an intermediary.”

Josephine frowned. “Well, if it is Gaspard, you don’t want to keep him waiting. Can you handle him on your own?”

“Uh, I guess.”

“Excellent. Now excuse me, I think I’ve spied the Grand Cleric of Val Chevin over there.”

With the aid of the servant’s directions, Bethany left the rest of the delegation behind and slowly made her way through the gardens. She caught quite a few eyes as she did so, she noticed, and quite a few hands went to cover mouths for exaggerated whispers. She could make out only the occasional fragment, but she heard the words ‘Tevinter’ and ‘terrorist’ multiple times. Bethany couldn’t keep from flushing red, but she managed to keep her head high and her eyes straight ahead. Thanks, tailcoat. Still, her heart was racing. _Blessed Lady, steel my soul …_

The south terrace, it turned out, was a rather lovely pavilion overlooking part of the gardens and the city of Halamshiral. Shrouded in elaborate arrangements of trees, bushes, hedges and fountains, it seemed to be designed to shield its occupants from prying eyes. A pair of beefy-looking bodyguards in deep blue uniforms were guarding the entrance to the terrace, but stepped aside without prompting when she approached. “His Imperial Highness awaits you inside, Your Worship.”

 _Highness,_ Bethany noted, recalling Josephine’s etiquette lessons, _not Majesty._ The diplomat had been right; without the official recognition of the Council of Heralds and the National Assembly, not even Gaspard’s closest allies presumed to call him emperor.

Slowly, she passed through the gate in the hedge and entered the open pavilion. The grand duke—dressed in a rather plain olive-coloured uniform—had his broad back to her, and was quietly talking to a pale woman in her forties who could only be described as striking, or perhaps regal. For an instant, Bethany thought it was the empress—she had the same pale blonde hair, the same sharp, hawkish features. But, no, this woman was younger, clearly.

The lady subtly nodded in her direction when she entered the pavilion, and the grand duke turned around to face her. Bethany was tempted to bow like a page girl in some period drama, but then remembered Josephine’s etiquette lessons. _The Inquisitor must bow to no one but the Divine and her Maker._  “Ah, Mme l’Inquisitrice. Welcome to Halamshiral; it is good to finally meet you. My sister, Florianne.”

“Your Imperial Highnesses.”

Florianne gave a slight laugh. “So serious. Keep in mind that this is a party. Enjoy yourself. I have some people I need to talk to, Inquisitor, you’ll excuse me. Gaspard, don’t bore the Inquisitor too much, will you? I’ll leave you to it.” She briefly patted her brother’s arm, then left the pavilion.

Once she was gone, Bethany produced the note she had been given. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Ah, yes, indeed. Walk with me, Inquisitor, the gardens are lovely just after sunset.” Bethany followed Gaspard as he led her on a ponderous stroll through a veritable maze of hedges, flowerbeds, pavilions and fountains. The gardens seemed to stretch on forever, and each carefully-hidden lamp cast bizarre shadows where they broke up the moonlit night. A strong smell of crystal grace and hyacinth lay in the air, and though it was unseasonably warm for late Drakonis, Bethany was near-shivering. “You were in Minrathous recently, weren’t you?” Gaspard opened after a while. “As I recall, you were meeting with Archon Calpernia the very instant Radonis died.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t exactly a secret, and as far as she knew the tabloids and Internet had already made much of it. “That’s true, monseigneur. We were together at her office when she got the news.”

“Hmm. It’s a tragedy, of course. Radonis was a good man, and a decent leader. Someone we could have worked with. Calpernia is … an unknown.”

“The Archon only wants what’s best for her people,” Bethany said, trying to reassure him. Since their meeting in Minrathous, she had talked to Calpernia twice on the phone—it was, she had to admit, flattering that the Archon had talked to her more than to most heads of state. But beyond that, she liked to think that Calpernia and her had connected in a unique way, bound by shared experiences and a blossoming friendship as much as by shared interests. At some point, Bethany would have to tell Josephine about the Archon’s calls to her private phone, but so far they hadn’t spoken a word of business. Somehow Bethany knew the diplomat wouldn’t approve. “You can reason with her. The things she said on the campaign trail—about Orlais, about the Tevene space program and military—are just talk. Rhetoric, nothing more. Peace and cooperation are in everyone’s interest.”

The grand duke chortled darkly. “Your words in the Maker’s ear. But enough about Tevinter. Tell me, Inquisitor, what brings you here tonight? I don’t believe you came all this way just for the canapés.”

She had to laugh at that. “No, I’m afraid not. The Inquisition is here to—well, observe the peace talks. Lend a helping hand, if we can. It’s our job to restore law and order, after all. It’s why we exist.”

“Please, Inquisitor. I detest the Game, but I know how it is played. You’re here because you want something.”

“Peace?” she offered.

“Ferelden no longer funds you, isn’t that right? Donations are drying up. Your troops are demoralised from the attack on Haven; some of them have left the Inquisition. You need the support of the empire.”

Bethany’s smile froze in place. How much could she say? Josephine had told her to simply leave the negotiations to her, and hadn’t gone into much detail. Better keep it general, to be on the safe side. _Don’t be silly,_ some part of her said, _you’re the inquisitor, not her._ But reason won the better of her, and said with a thin-lipped smile: “The Inquisition is impartial. We are concerned only with restoring order, not with taking sides. We’ll welcome any support you may be able to give us.”

The grand duke rolled his eyes. “I recommend you don’t say something like that again, unless you want your Lady Montilyet to have a stroke. The elite of the empire is assembled here tonight—some of the most powerful people in the world, graduates of the Grandes écoles and veterans of all the pillars of the empire. Most of them are expert players of the Game. If you want to survive in there, you better get good fast.”

“Why?” The grand duke’s bluntness had taken her aback. She thought she’d been fairly diplomatic. “What did I say wrong?”

“You’re trying to be coy—inscrutable—noncommittal. All that tells me is that you don’t really have a plan. That you don’t even know what you want. A plaything, not a player. You want to be proactive, not reactive.” A bell rang, and Grand Duke Gaspard glanced at his wristwatch.

“Am I keeping you from something?”

“Not at all. In fact, we have some more time. Let me be blunt with you, Inquisitor. I am concerned about some of the company you have been keeping. Archon Calpernia may be charming and charismatic, but she is not to be trusted. You should look for allies closer to home. Allies you can count on.”

“Allies like you?”

“Allies like Grand Chancellor Roderick, for instance. Right now, the Chantry is your best option. They can’t give you money or troops, but they can give you moral authority and divine sanction. You’ve already taken the first step towards playing the ‘Herald of Andraste’ card, but you’re not moving far enough. Roderick is an administrator yearning for guidance and legitimate authority. Use that. Co-opt him. Remake the Chantry in your own image and turn it into your instrument.”

Bethany blinked, stared. Her mouth was dry. “I’m not ...” She broke off. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I wonder,” said the Grand Duke, chuckling. “That air of innocence—is there anything to it, anything at all? You are a smart woman; you must know your own power.” Before Bethany could make reply, the bell rang again, twice this time. “Ah, but we must cut this short. That’s the summons to the Hall of Homage. Inquisitor, may I have the pleasure of your company?” He offered her his arm, and somewhat hesitantly she took it.

The Hall of Homage, the Grand Duke explained, leading her through the gardens, which were now almost empty, had once served as the throne room, where the emperor or empress received foreign diplomats and regional dignitaries, promulgated laws and edicts and performed all the other ceremonies of state. After the court had moved from Halamshiral to Val Royeaux at the end of the Storm Age, it had fallen into disrepair until modern technology had enabled the court’s annual moves to the milder climes of Halamshiral during the winter. Now, it was used again for the occasional ceremony, including  the Diplomatic Ball.

The Grand Duke indicated a brisk pace, and quite quickly they had reached a set of archways flanked by guards in polished steel cuirasses and elaborate masked helmets. Through the thick marble walls, the faint clamouring of a large crowd could be made out. “Ready to face the music, Inquisitor?”

She tried to think of something clever to say. She nodded.

On Gaspard’s arm, Bethany entered the Hall of Homage. At once, she felt blinded by the light of electric candles and sconces, reflected and prismed by hundreds of tiny crystals that hung from the frescoed ceiling in heavy chandeliers, and by the tall mirrors lining the walls on either side of them. It was warm in the hall, no doubt a consequence of the throngs of people gathered in it, yet a gentle breeze seemed to fly through it, bringing necessary refreshment. Once her eyes had somewhat attenuated to the sudden brightness, Bethany realised that the back wall of the hall was composed of five massive floor-to-ceiling windows interrupted by marble columns. The middle window was made of stained glass, although there was no way to determine what it depicted now that the sun had gone down. In the other windows, all wide open and leading out onto a large terrace looking out over the city, swayed large silk banners of the Orlesian flag. Yet Bethany’s eyes were intractably drawn towards the massive throne in front of the middle window. A huge sunburst emerging from the floor as half a wheel formed the backrest, and resting lions the arms. Both shone brightly in the chandeliers’ light, and Bethany would not have been surprised to learn they were shaped from solid gold. Royal blue cushions were embedded into the seat and backrest, the latter embroidered in gold with the imperial coat of arms. It was the sort of overloaded, almost gaudy thing she had expected, and yet she could not but be awed.

Bethany issued a slight gasp at the sight of the hall, at the scale of it. In the silence that slowly descended over the hall as all eyes turned to them. it felt like a scream. She flushed. Then, suddenly, to their right, a young elf in an embroidered silk herald’s tabard slammed a carved rod of wood onto the floor and exclaimed: “His Imperial Highness, Field Marshal the Grand Duke Gaspard of Chalons, Prince of the Blood and Marshal of Orlais! Accompanying His Imperial Highness: the Right Worshipful and Learned Enchanter Bethany Revka Hawke, Lady Amell of Kirkwall, formerly Viscomital Reader in Force Magic at that Circle, and leader of the Inquisition!”

Oh, bugger.

She could make out the Inquisition delegation in the crowd lining the hall. Josephine was staring, slack-jawed. Clearly, this hadn’t gone as planned. Before Bethany had time to react in any way, Gaspard tugged on her arm and lead her forwards towards the centre of the hall. “Thank you for going along with this,” he told her in a subdued voice as most of the guests slowly returned to their conversations, occasionally throwing aghast glances in their direction. “I have some people to see, so you will excuse me. I trust I will have the privilege of your first dance this evening, Madame?”

“Uh,” she made. “Maybe?”

“Splendid. Have a good night.” With these words, he gave a slight bow and departed into the crowd.

The Inquisition delegation met her halfway back. “What on earth where you thinking, Inquisitor?” Josephine snapped. “Walking into the hall like that, at the side of the grand duke? We cannot be seen to be aligning ourselves with a rebel warlord if we are to have any hope of coming to an agreement with the Orlesians. You may just have thrown our entire negotiating platform overboard ...”

“Calm down,” Cullen interjected. “You can spin this, I have full confidence in you.” He turned to Bethany. “What happened, Inquisitor?”

She could only sigh. Oh, Maker, this was starting out to be even worse than she’d feared. “He played me. I wasn’t thinking. _Mea culpa._ We’ll just have to work with it.”

“Yes. Yes, clearly. I can go speak to the prime minister’s private secretary to smooth things over, for now. In the meantime, just ... don’t do anything foolish, okay?”

Bethany flushed red. Josephine was right, she had to be on her guard. “I won’t.”

The Antivan gathered her skirts and hurried away, leaving her with Cullen and Leliana. “One more thing, Inquisitor,” the latter said, quietly. Bethany had to strain her ears to hear what she was saying over the music, chatter and ringing of champagne flutes.

“Yes?”

“While you were talking to the grand duke, I got a text from my station chief in Halamshiral. Multiple agents have reported unusual activity among the palace staff. You see, the empress lives in a suite in the east wing when she is in Halamshiral these days. The residence in the west wing hasn’t been used in years and is normally kept sealed. Tonight, servants were seen entering it, and Cullen’s people have reported seeing lights in the windows.”

“That’s not much to go on. They could be cleaning, doing maintenance ...”

“Tonight? Unlikely. So I had my people run checks on the servants seen entering the residence—turns out, all of them are elves, none of them were employed in the palace a year ago, and none of them had any business being in the residence tonight. And that’s not the only thing. An hour ago, Assemblywoman Briala—I mentioned her—was shown entering the palace grounds on live TV. As far as I can tell, no one has seen her since. Something’s up.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. “You think she’s got something to do with it?”

“Briala knows the residence—she used to sleep there, after all. What’s more, she’s dangerous. Graduated from the College of Bards a couple of years before I did, got posted in the palace as a counterintelligence agent ... I don’t have anything solid, but my gut says she’s involved somehow. And if she’s willing to risk being caught breaking into the residence, I want to know why.”

“Right. Okay. So what do we do? Do we investigate?”

“We don’t really have the wherewithal to do anything right now. I’ll stretch out feelers, see what I can find. In the meantime, how about you go talk to ... oh.”

Leliana was interrupted by the sound of a herald’s baton being slammed against the marble floor and ringing out throughout the hall, once, twice, thrice. All conversation ceased, and all eyes turned towards the doors. Someone stifled a cough, as loud as thunder in the sudden silence. “All rise,” the herald declaimed, “for Her Imperial Majesty, Celene, by the grace of the Maker and the constitutions of the Nation, Empress of Orlais, Queen of the Dales, Sword and Shield of the Faith, and sovereign over all the world, long may she reign! Accompanying Her Imperial Majesty the Empress: Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Florianne of Lydes, Princess of the Blood!”

Bethany felt the urge to bow, but no one else did, leaving her to merely stare. She had, of course, seen the Empress before—on the news, online, in books—but never in person. Celene was a fair bit shorter than she appeared on television, and deep, severe folds lined her pale face. Her lustrous, barely greying blonde hair was done up in a strict bun, and she wore no jewellery but a plain gold sunburst pendant and a large signet ring. Her gown was equally plain: the sleek and sophisticated deep blue satin dress featured no ornamentation of any sort. Yet despite this, Celene’s presence immediately bound all present.

The empress briefly paused in the doorway and let her eyes sweep across the assembled revellers, then joined her fingertips together in front of her waist and, with perfect poise, made her way towards the throne and took her seat there. A microphone was promptly moved before her. Once she had settled in, she said in Orlesian: “In the name of the Most Merciful, Most Holy, the all-powerful lord of lords and Creator of All That Is And Is Not, We bid you welcome. Let us begin.” Smoothly transitioning into Common, she added: “Who comes before Our sunlit throne?”

A sort of queue had formed around the space before the throne, without any prompting whatsoever. Now, the man at the top of the queue stepped forward, bowed, took another step towards the throne, and went down on one knee. Two members of the Imperial Guard in polished cuirasses approached, carrying between them a large, flat object in a velvet shroud.

“His Excellency, Monsieur Friedereich von Hohenheim, the ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the Marcherite Republic of the Anderfels,” one of the heralds proclaimed.

“Your Imperial Majesty, on behalf of President Beckmesser I offer you greetings, thanks, and homage. I beseech you to accept a customary gift on behalf of your nation from ours, that commemorates our shared history and deep and lasting friendship.” The guardsmen uncovered the object they were carrying. It was a large, plain-looking book bound in red leather. When they opened it, Bethany could make out elaborate scrollwork and miniatures on each page. “This is a manuscript copy of the Most Holy Chant of Light, scribed and illustrated by the Anders artist Angelika Erlanger, who won the Golden Gryphon at the Antivan Triennale last year. We hope this codex will find a worthy place within Your Imperial Majesty’s library, and serve as a pious reminder that each of us, however high or low, is but a child among children of their Maker.”

The empress gave a barely perceptible nod. “On behalf of the Orlesian nation and the empire, We thank you, ambassador, for your homage and tribute. As a sign of Our grace and favour, We have been moved to grant you the following boon:” An aide stepped to the throne, holding an embossed leather folder for the empress’ attention. “That your pious loyalty to Our imperial throne be rewarded with the grant of one seat aboard the space capsule _Excellence_ SM-102 that is due to launch Expedition 63 to the Space Station _Liberté_ in the spring of 9:46; and further, that this seat shall be filled by a fully-trained crewmember of your nation, whomever you may choose, and that said crewmember shall be considered a full crewmember and participant of Expedition 63, until such time as they may complete their mission.” Without really looking, the empress picked up a pen and put her signature on the paper the aide was presenting to her. The ambassador rose, bowed, and retreated without turning his back to the throne.

Bethany raised an eyebrow. A fancy Chant for a spationaut? Josephine had explained to her that a central part of the ceremony was the exchange of gifts between the ambassadors and the empress—or, in the Orlesian view, tribute. Yet she had not mentioned that the empress’ favours tended to far outstrip the ‘tribute’ she received.

The Anders Chant was quickly removed, and a dark-skinned, grey-haired woman in a deep green evening dress took Ambassador von Hohenheim’s place. “Her Excellency, Madame Marcellina Scuomeni, the ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary of His Majesty the King of Antiva.”

“Your Imperial Majesty, on behalf of His Majesty King Enzo of Antiva and the Royal Signoria I offer you greetings, thanks, and homage. I beseech you to accept a customary gift on behalf of your nation from ours, that commemorates our shared history and lasting friendship.” The same pair of guardsmen presented the empress with an elongated velvet cushion, upon which lay a sword. “As agreed upon in the treaty of 7:21, Antiva submits to you a blade of the finest Llomerryn steel, forged by Master Elgric Battista Antonetti, the third master craftsman of that name to lead the Antonetti S. Silvestra forge. As each Antonetti sword we have had the honour of presenting to you and your storied ancestors, may it serve you well in your defence of your nation, in war and in peace.”

Again, the empress nodded, shooing the guardsmen with the sword away without so much as looking at it. “On behalf of the Orlesian nation and the empire, We thank you, ambassador, for your homage and tribute. As a sign of Our grace and favour, We have been moved to grant you the following boon: the _Merveilleux-_ class guided missile cruiser _Téméraire,_ presently berthed in Rialto, which shall be your king’s to do with as he sees fit from noon tomorrow, local time.” Again, the empress signed. Again, no one seemed particularly surprised.

When the ambassador of Nevarra exchanged five gold and five lyrium rings for oil drilling rights in part of the Orlesian New World, it dawned upon Bethany that this wasn’t about the gifts. Most likely, everything that was exchanged here tonight had long been agreed on by diplomats and negotiators. And quite possibly, Orlais received recompense in cold, hard cash, or other favours—but the ceremony, the exchange of gifts, was key. When other countries had to come and humbly supplicate themselves, they offered tribute to the one true empire. When Orlais showered its loyal subjects in gifts, it did so out of imperial magnanimity. Recalling Josephine’s explanations, Bethany wondered how many of the ambassadors had spoken to Gaspard already, if any. He had no gifts to offer them, after all.

One by one, the ambassadors accredited to the imperial court did homage, each receiving a very real ‘boon’ in return for a symbolic tribute. Something was missing, though: she knew that the Qunari did not maintain formal diplomatic relationships with any other power, so their absence was unsurprising, but neither the dwarven nor the Tevene ambassadors had done homage to the empress. Only at the very end of the ceremony—when every other ambassador appeared to have done their part—the empress said: “But We see one among us who has not recognised his empress, who shies away from the light and avoids Our embrace. Does Our well-beloved niece, the Queen of Minrathous, not send her envoy to do homage?”

So smoothly that he must have practised beforehand, the Tevene ambassador approached the throne. Unlike his colleagues, he did not kneel, and only gave a slight bow. “Madam, it is not the Queen of Minrathous who scorns and defies you: it is the Archon Calpernia, to which title she lays claim, and all her people, for you are no empress of ours. You shall hear no homage from me today,”

Empress Celene did not twitch an eyebrow. “It saddens Us to see our well-beloved niece of Minrathous so led astray, wandering far from Our love. Demonic lies and magics, We can see, have blackened her heart, and she shall find no succour or redemption if not in the word of her Maker. Receive, then, despite your scorn, Our grace and Our love, for We would not see even the foulest of Our children falter lost to the Void. Go, then, and take this to your mistress; may it light the sacred flame of right-thinking in her heart.” A guardswoman handed the ambassador a plain book with a golden sunburst on the cover, the Chant of Light. Wordlessly, the ambassador withdraw as the audience applauded. This, too, had been scripted.

Having heard homage, the empress quickly disappeared into an adjoining room. Not soon after, Bethany spied Grand Duke Gaspard and several of his people joining her, no doubt for negotiations. The guests took to the dance floor as a chamber orchestra began to play light tunes. A handful of people cast glances in her direction, but she knew that none of them would actually approach her until she had chosen a first partner herself—fat chance of that. Unsure of what to do, she went to look for Josephine for further instructions, when the phone in her tailcoat’s inside pocket started to buzz.

Expecting some sort of update from Cullen’s people, she was surprised to find herself being called by an unknown number. Not many people knew her phone number, and most of them would not have called her tonight. After dismissing the idea of not answering the call, Bethany quickly hid away in an alcove between two pillars and took up. “Hawke?”

 _“Good evening, Inquisitor,”_ Archon Calpernia’s clear mezzo answered. _“I hope you’re enjoying the party.”_

Bethany had to force herself to remain calm, despite the surprise and the odd heat she felt in her stomach at hearing the other mage’s voice. “Archon,” she said, exhaling, “I—I didn’t expect you to call. How did you get this number?”

_“I control six different intelligence services. You’re looking delicious tonight, by the way. Love the tailcoat. Look up and to your right.”_

Flushing red at the compliment, Bethany followed the direction and looked up to the galleries. A thicket of television cameras was assembled there, chronicling and broadcasting the proceedings to the world as they swept across the hall. One, however, seemed to remain fixed on her in particular. “Are you ... are you watching me?”

 _“Mmh. I want to see you dance later. Maybe I’ll have my ambassador approach you later in my stead. Wish I was there myself.”_ Oh, sweet Andraste, she was not going to lose that mental image anytime soon. “ _Anyway—on to business. I’ve got some information you might be interested in ..._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

A shadow slid over the wall and softly dropped into the flowerbed below, trampling the crystal graces. It did not take but an instant to look around before it rushed across the lawn into the shadowed alcove of a small statue along the wall. Heavy footsteps could be heard, chatter. “All I’m saying is—” and “No, damn it, it’s not gonna happen. Halam won’t win the championship for at least ...”

The shadow watched silently as the two soldiers passed by, blending into the alcove with its breath held. Its hand went to its weapon—but no, it was too soon. It would see more use later that night.

The shadow waited until the soldiers were out of sight. Then, it disappeared, moving ever closer to the centre of the palace.

 

* * *

 

 

One of Leliana’s people, an elven maidservant who had introduced herself as Engraver, guided them through a seemingly endless maze of hidden passages—bare, gloomy concrete corridors, so narrow one had to keep one’s arms close to one’s side, with the occasional half-hidden door leading to one of the palace’s hundreds of state rooms. At some point, Engraver had explained that they’d moved into the residence, abandoned for the most part but tonight the centre of considerable activity.

“We only just came across them ourselves,” Engraver explained in a half-whisper, moving swiftly as she led the way. One of the _tournants_ found them when he went to use the staff bathroom down the hallway.”

“Found them? How?”

“The smell, Lady Herald. Whoever put them there didn’t think to open a window, or turn down the heating. It’s right here.” Engraver softly opened a narrow wooden door so well-hidden in the wall Bethany would never have found it on her own. Almost immediately, a cool spring breeze hit them, carrying the stench of early putrefaction with it. Someone had, it appeared, opened a window after all, but it was barely sufficient to keep her from gagging.

They entered the elegant bedroom to the covert whispers and rapid-fire camera clicking of the Inquisition agents already present. With every step, their feet descended deep into the carpet. Five corpses lay on the ground, somewhere between a pile and a careless array. All of them were human, three men and two women, dressed in sensible yet anonymous business attire. And all five of them had had their throats cut. Bethany half-covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “Have you identified the victims?” she asked, trying to recall their MO when she’d served in the MCIS.

“We’ve got a good idea of who three of them are,” Engraver reported. “All of them junior advisers to members of the Council of Heralds. Still working on the other two, but probably same story there. Cause of death appears to have been a stabbed throat in all cases—deep, straight through the carotid arteries. Quick, quiet death.”

“That’s what they taught us at the College of Bards,” Leliana commented, sounding vaguely interested. “Slitting someone’s throat is easy, but it’s also messy, slow, and loud. You want to go at it from the side.” Bethany took as inconspicuous a step as she could manage away from her.

“No signs of struggle, so whoever got them probably came up to them from behind. We’re clearly dealing with an experienced professional here. A bard, maybe, or a high-class hitman. Or it could be foreign agents.”

“Hmm. Any thoughts, Engraver?”

The maid bit her lips. “Just the one, Your Worship. We found a fair bit of blood in the Arlessant Corridor, just by the portrait of the Duke of Rivollieu”

“So ... is there anything special about that spot?”

“The floorboards. They creak something terrible whenever a human walks across them, too loud for someone right in front of you not to notice. But when it’s an elf like me, or most dwarves, you can’t hear a thing. Because we’re usually lighter, you know. The victim would have heard their assassin coming up on them. A dwarf would have chosen an easier method to kill than to reach all the way up to their victim’s throats, so ... I’d say our suspect is an elf.”

Bethany bit her lip. So Calpernia had been right: Briala’s agents were up to something. It only made sense, after all. What, though, did she have to gain from killing advisors to councillors? “The Council of Heralds ... it deals with succession, right?”

“Not usually—that tends to be fairly straightforward. They normally deal with heraldic matters, serve as a court of appeal for disputes of honour involving the nobility, and keep track of the principal bloodlines of the empire. It’s only in the past couple of years that its role as the arbiter of disputed succession to the imperial throne has come into the foreground, for obvious reasons.”

Nodding silently, Bethany examined one of the dead bodies. Glassy eyes stared past her at the ceiling. A clean stab, as far as she could tell, though covered in gore. She grimaced, glad she hadn’t eaten anything. Partly to distract herself, she cast a few quick spells to examine the Fade—no, nothing, of course not: the deed hadn’t been done here. “Why would Briala kill the advisors, though?” she wondered out loud. “Why not the councillors themselves? To send a message? To weaken them?”

“Anyone can hire an elven assassin,” Leliana pointed out. “Engraver, any news yet on which councillors the three you’ve identified worked for?”

“Madame Montbelliard, Monseigneur de Ghislain and Monseigneur de Chalons.”

“Bastien de Ghislain was Gaspard’s father-in-law before the accident, and Germain is his uncle. The Comtesse Montbelliard is the odd one out. Her husband is a senior civil servant in the Department of the Colonies. Celene knighted him two years ago. By all appearances, she’s loyal to the empress.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. “You think Celene is trying to sabotage Gaspard by targeting his supporters?”

“Not Celene. She’s far too smart for that, and keeps a tight rein on her people. You want to put pressure on someone, you don’t murder their advisors, especially not in such a ham-handed manner.”

“So by having them killed under her roof, at a party she’s hosting,” Bethany slowly reasoned, connected the dots, “someone is trying to discredit her. Make her take the fall for the murders. Briala?”

“Briala has nothing to gain from taking down Celene. Her party depends on being useful and necessary. As soon as the empress feels secure enough to appoint a minority government, or rule by decree like Alistair in Denerim does, she’ll cast the MLP aside; whereas with Gaspard still around, Briala and her assemblypeople are the kingmakers propping up the government.”

“But who else could it be?”

Leliana shrugged. “Could be Gaspard himself. Maybe Ghislain and Chalons are wavering, now that peace is on the table, and he thinks he can intimidate Montbelliard into crossing the aisle. It’s the kind of thing I could see him doing. Foolish and artless, that is.”

“Gaspard wouldn’t have his own allies murdered,” Bethany objected. “What would be the point of that?”

“Assistants can be replaced. Councillors, not so much.”

Bethany shivered slightly at the cool nonchalance in Leliana’s voice. “Alright. Let’s assume it was Gaspard’s people. Where does Briala come in then? She’s been behaving suspiciously as well.”

“Good question. She’s probably playing her own game. That doesn’t explain why she appears to be skulking around the west wing. I can’t think of any plot that would require her personal presence in a part of the palace no one has lived in for years. She’s isolating and weakening her position by absenting herself from the ball, not to mention arousing suspicion. I daresay we should look into her more closely.”

“Agreed. Agent Engraver,” she called, asking for the elf to join them. “How many people can we spare inside the palace? Enough to scour the west wing for Briala?”

“Impossible. We’d need all year. But we can probably send people to check some of the most likely places.”

Bethany nodded. With any luck, Briala would have answers for them. “We can’t afford to ignore any leads right now. Do it.” She looked around the room. “In the meantime, I’ll try talking to some of the Councillors. If their enemies are willing to kill their aides, they will know.”

 

* * *

 

 

While the ball’s attendees at the Imperial Winter Palace in Halamshiral were feasting, dancing and paying homage to their empress, halfway across the empire Edric Cadash was crawling through mud.

Trying to get into a better position, he cursed his luck. The ground underneath him had long turned into a congealed mess of soil, leaves and twigs, while rain continued to drizzle down on him. The poncho helped, somewhat, but his trousers and boots were freezing and soaked. If he attempted to fire his rifle now, he suspected there was a good chance it would jam.

He decided to ignore the fact that he was starting to lose all feeling in his toes and adjusted the clunky aftermarket night vision goggles mounted on his helmet. The image was grainy and a monochrome green, but it was better than having to rely on just his natural dark-vision. He knew for a fact that the Carta occasionally transported batches of high-tech goggles designed for the military of Orzammar to the surface, but of course _that_ suggestion had fallen on deaf ears when he’s brought it up to the quartermaster.

Cadash quickly scanned his surroundings, then signalled for his partner to follow him. Trevelyan moved through the mud at a speed he would have thought to be impossible for a human, what with their long, clumsy limbs and all. “Anything?” Trevelyan whispered.

Not bothering to reply, the dwarf shook his head. This wasn’t the first time they’d moved to observe the secluded forest compound, and as per usual nothing much seemed to be going on. The windows were still blacked out, allowing only a sliver of light past them to reveal signs of activity. Behind one window blind, a faint blue sheen suggested a television. The goggles, of course, did not allow for such distinctions.

“Damn it,” the human said, still whispering. “You’d think they’d have to do something eventually. We’ve been observing them for weeks now, and the most interesting thing that happened was a pizza delivery.”

He shrugged. He’d been on longer stake-outs.

“We  should just take them our,” Trevelyan continued. “These Red Templars are a menace.”

That would have been rash, Cadash knew, and would have wasted a valuable opportunity to further investigate their operation. Still, he could not disagree with Trevelyan’s assessment that nothing of interest had occurred in the six days they had observed the compound. But neither was their any obvious sign their operation had been detected.

Cadash crawled back into the undergrowth when the noise of an engine reached his ears, faint at first, but approaching quickly. Shortly afterwards, cones of light cut through the trees as a dark minivan appeared on the forest track leading to the compound. The dwarf and the human exchanged a look, and adjusted their night vision goggles to compensate for the sudden illumination. “Another delivery?” Trevelyan whispered, but he did not bother replying as he took care to memorise the van’s license plate.

The car came to a slow stop just outside the compound’s main building just in front of the ridge they were hidden on. The engine and the lights were turned off and the driver cabin’s doors opened. Above the main building’s entrance, a bare lightbulb flickered on as two humans stepped out, both carrying sidearms. A male and a female human in blue coveralls exited the car, and all four moved to the back of the van, where they opened the rear doors and removed something from the boot.

Whatever it was, it must have been heavy, for it took all four of them to lift it. They awkwardly made their way back into the building, moving gingerly, as though their cargo was extremely fragile and they were afraid of dropping it. Cadash could only catch glimpses of it between the humans carrying it, but it seemed to be a large wooden crate, about two metres long and a metre tall and wide. It bore no obvious markings as far as I can see.

“Hold on a moment,” Trevelyan whispered. One of the humans, a haggard man with shaggy dark hair and beard had a last look around before closing the door behind them. “The guy at the far left, did you recognise him?”

“Mhm,” Cadash grunted affirmatively, not waiting for an answer before withdrawing through the undergrowth.

 

* * *

 

 

The pair of Inquisition soldiers closed and locked the door behind them before resuming their silent guard in the deserted hallway off the main ballroom.

A projector had been set up on the large conference table occupying most of the room, throwing images from Cullen’s laptop against the wall. The commander had taken the seat at the head of the table, with Leliana and Josephine to his left, Bethany seated to his right, and the other Inquisition agents and officers crowded around the rest of the room. The table had long been covered in laptops, documents, and cardboard cups of cold coffee.

“Twenty minutes ago, Operation Supervisor had its first sighting of the primary target,” Cullen declared, pulling up the now-familiar photograph of Ser Raleigh Samson smiling into the camera next to a satellite image of the compound. Cullen was still wearing his tailcoat and sword, both now awkwardly catching on his chair whenever he moved. “We have two separate reports identifying Samson at the compound. Moreover, it appears he received a delivery of some sort. Our agents simply describe it as a large crate of apparently considerable value and importance, but have no clue what it might contain.”

Bethany removed her bowtie and unbuttoned the starched collar. “What could it be?” she wondered. “Lyrium? Weapons? Cash?”

The voice that replied was distorted almost to the point of incomprehension, being routed through radio and laptop speakers. “Doesn’t look like it, ser. No way that crate could be used for safely storing lyrium, and the way they were moving it, it looked pretty fragile. Heavy, too.”

“It might be some kind of magical artefact,” Leliana suggested, crossing her legs to reveal a fair bit of skin under the slit skirt of her gown. “Either way, speculation is getting us nowhere.”

Cullen nodded. “This setting off alarm bells for anyone else?”

“Whatever it is, I don’t think we like Samson having it,” Josephine concluded. “Now that we also have confirmation that he’s there, shouldn’t we take action?”

A stone seemed to appear in Bethany’s throat as she realised what she meant. Samson was a threat, undoubtedly, and if he was behind the attack on Haven and Ella’s death then, yes, she wanted him dead. But something about discussing it so coldly felt disconcerting. Call her old-fashioned, but at the very least the guy deserved a fair chance, right?

“I am inclined to agree. We may not get another opportunity like this. I’ve got a rapid response team an hour’s helicopter ride away; I can have them join Leliana’s people right away.”

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to her. Oh, right, a decision. They wanted her to decide on whether to send Inquisition forces into a stronghold full of heavily-armed red templars and kill or be killed. _You have to make these kind of choices,_ a voice told her, and she wasn’t quite sure if it was her own sense or her Lady. Did it have to be right now, though? They were busy enough with the ball and the murders as was. “Just ...” Her cheeks burned red-hot. “Get your people there and keep me updated. If anything changes, tell me about it.”

“It will be difficult to hide the arrival of my teams,” Cullen suggested, frowning. “Once they’re in place, the enemy will know something’s up.”

“But we’ll know if anything happens. They’re trapped right where they are. We can deal with this later; right now we’ve got more urgent business to focus on.”

Cullen and Leliana exchanged a look, but did not object. “I’ll ... give the order, Inquisitor.”

“Right. In the meantime, I want to figure out what’s going on here.” Bethany rose to her feet. “I’m going to talk to the councillors, see what they know.” It was not, she decided, that she didn’t want to make a decision regarding Operation Supervisor. Rather, the stakes in play were so vastly disparate—a minor lieutenant of Corypheus and a mysterious shipment versus the future of the Orlesian empire and the Inquisition within it—that she could not allow herself to be distracted.

Besides, she reasoned, leaving the communications room, she was good at investigations. She’d take a murder over a diplomatic function any day, even now. _You won’t always have that luxury. If you are to do any good in the world, you must learn how to work it._

Lavellan met her outside, chatting with the guards. “What’s afoot, then?” she asked as Bethany approached.

“Three murders and a missing assemblywoman. Come, I need to speak to the Comtesse Montbelliard.”

“Chubby little lady in green, with that weird kind of bird nest hairdo? Saw her just now, on the south-side terrace.”

“Lead the way.”

As usual, Bethany struggled to keep pace with the elf as she was led through hidden pathways and back corridors that Lavellan navigated with such ease as though they were the forests she had grown up in. “Heard about the murders,” she said, “The staff are talking ‘bout little else right now. A lot of palace guards have been moved to the residence.”

“Is security worried the assassin might still be around?”

“Maybe. From what I’m hearing, none of them have attempted to secure the corpses or drive our people away. They’ve just been patrolling the residence and gardens.”

Bethany’s brow furled. “They could be looking for Briala. She still hasn’t shown herself at the party, despite what she said.” Evidently, someone else had had the same idea as her. “Do you think—” She stopped herself. _Let’s not go there until we have to._ “Nevermind.”

Through a half-hidden door, Elliana and Bethany stepped out onto a wide, airy corridor. It was reasonably deserted: two guards, flanking a pair of doors with their rifles resting by their feet, their stillness broken only by the occasional side-eyed glare at the Navy officer noisily being sick into a potted plant.

To their left, frosted glass doors flanked by guardsmen led out onto the terrace. “The Montbelliard should be through there,” Elliana reported. “At least, that’s where I last saw her. I’ll leave you to it.”

Her companion departed. Bethany had a quick glance at herself in one of the mirrors lining the corridor—creeping through hidden pathways and investigating the murdered aides had left her somewhat dishevelled, and she did her best to fix her bowtie and smooth out her sash. Then, she stepped out onto the balcony ...

Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Celene, by the grace of the Maker and the constitutions of the Nation, Empress of Orlais, Queen of the Dales, Sword and Shield of the Faith, and sovereign over all the world, turned to face her, a faint smile on her rosy lips. “Inquisitor,” she calmly said, indicating a nod. They were completely alone. “How good of you to join me.”

Bethany stopped dead in her tracks. “You ... Your Majesty. I was expecting someone else.”

A faint smile played around the empress’ lips. “Ah, yes, Madame Montbelliard. I asked her to step aside for a moment so we could talk privately.”

“Well, I’m ... honoured.” _I guess._ “Is there ... anything I can do for you?”

“Join me. We haven’t had a chance to speak before.”

Cautiously, Bethany stepped up to the railing, half expecting some nasty surprise. People who meant you well generally didn’t resort to trickery to meet. Keeping the empress in her eye, Bethany regarded the city of Halamshiral stretched out in the valley before them, a sea of bright lights against the midnight blue sky.

“You caused quite a stir, you know, arriving as Gaspard’s plus one. Not the best way to kick-start the Inquisition’s involvement in Orlesian politics.”

She blushed, but only a little bit. Josephine had already chewed her out over her thoughtlessness, after all. “Madame, I can assure you that the Inquisition has no intention of ...”

“Oh, rubbish. How many men do you have under arms in the empire? Ten thousand? Twenty? Inquisition forces are enforcing martial law in departments where local government has broken down during the war, and most pressingly you are here tonight. Whether your organisation intended this or not, Mme l’Inquisitrice, rest assured that you are already _deeply_ involved. What remains to be seen is the nature of that involvement.”

The empress turned to face her, leaning on the railing. “Your actions in Ferelden have been ... troubling. Even before the attack on Haven, it seems to me the Inquisition had more success in further inflaming the war between mages and templars than ending it. I cannot blame King Alistair for asking you to leave.”

Bethany bit her lip. It had been a while since she had thought of Haven, thought of Ella and all those who had died there as a consequence of her choices. At the time, she had been driven to the brink of despair, but now the guilt felt rather more like an old companion: she had been forgiven and absolved, once more, by the hands of her Lady as by Divine Justinia before. “Mistakes were made,” Bethany said, trying to sound diplomatic. “But our mission remains the same as it’s always been—to restore order to the world. We’ll work with anyone who shares that goal.”

The wryest of smiles appeared on Celene’s face. “I see. And how do five murdered diplomatic aides fit into that?” She must have read the surprise in Bethany’s eyes, for she added: “This is my home, Mme l’Inquistrice, where every wall has ears and every locked door might as well be made of glass. You are certainly moving in interesting circles tonight.”

It was all Bethany could do not to roll her eyes. _If I have to hear one more veiled allegation ..._ “Madame, surely we all share a common cause here.” At least, that’s what she was pretty sure Celene would want her to think, if she was behind the murders. “We all want to see the murderer brought to justice and see these peace talks to a successful end.”

The empress raised an elegant eyebrow. “Do we, now? Madame, your sources of information are clearly superior to mine. As I see it, whoever had these poor young people murdered sought to influence the councillors. All the victims served my supporters on the Council of Heralds. An attack on them is an attack on me. We are both aware of certain parties who would stand to benefit from that. All that remains to be seen is which of them is responsible.”

 _Unless that’s what you want me to think_  ... Bethany had to stop herself right there. She’d clearly been spending too much time around Leliana. “As you say, Madame.”

Staring past her into the night, Celene produced a small silver etui from one of the folds of her gown—try as she might, Bethany could not make out the hidden pocket it must have come from—and took out a cigarette and a long, milky white horn holder. “What intrigues me most about these events is how neatly things happened. By all accounts, your Inquisition agents were the first to find the corpses, purely by accident—not Briala’s spies, or Gaspard’s, or mine, but those of an outsider. You are immediately informed by your spies—that would be that mysterious phone call you took earlier, I assume. And all the while, my dear old friend Briala has been lurking around the west wing. Would you?” The empress held out her cigarette, and Bethany quickly conjured a small flame on her fingertip for her to light it on. Celene took a slow, deep drag, her eyes shut, then exhaled a small smoke cloud into the wind.

“I am not sure what you’re implying, Madame.”

“In truth, neither am I. Do you even know yourself who is pulling your strings? What is clear is that someone meant for you—an outsider—to find the bodies. To convey a message via a herald—if you’ll pardon the pun—who is above suspicion of having ulterior motives.”

Bethany didn’t need to ponder that long to put one and one together. “You think someone is trying to upset the peace talks. Sow distrust between the parties. If the Inquisition is the one spreading the news, rather than Gaspard or the Accord or yourself, every other side is equally suspect.”

“Indeed. Which makes me wonder who could benefit from disrupting these talks. Certainly not the Orlesian people, fourteen per cent of whom Briala claims to represent. The Accord has no strategic interest in escalating civil war in the empire. But Gaspard stands to benefit from discrediting me. So does Briala, whether she is in league with him or not. You will do me the courtesy of accepting, for now, that I have nothing to gain from crippling and attacking my key supporters in the Council of Heralds.”

She did her best attempt at a noncommittal smile. “As you say.”

The empress’ smile was decidedly more amused. “It is a good thing you were born a mage. You would have made a dreadful politician. No offence.”

“Uh, none taken. I think. You want me to look into Gaspard and Briala, then?”

Celene made a dismissive gesture, turning away again. “Do what you will. I shan’t stop you. But...” and here she grew quiet, “I consider it a matter of some interest that Briala and Gaspard have both gone above and beyond propriety to monopolise you tonight. What’s more, Briala’s absence is ... unusual. She would never admit it, but she adores these occasions.” Her stern, regal features seemed to melt at these words, softening into an image of serenity. “Did you see what she was wearing when she arrived? That shabby suit, those dull shoes? She spent more time and money perfecting that look than any of those noble ladies outside. She _feeds_ on their disapproval, their stares and whispers. Always has. She needs it as much as I need love. To know that she is in a place she does not belong, being scorned by everyone around her, and know that they are powerless to do anything about it. That she will crush them all one day.”

The empress looked up, past her, out onto the brightly-lit glow of the city. “It’s what drew me to her in the first place,” she said, quietly, as though Bethany wasn’t even there. “I loved that. Of all my handmaidens, she was the only one with guts.”

Bethany bit her lip. She knew she was observing something that was not meant for her. Except, perhaps, it was. “You were close,” she stated after a while, feeling incredibly silly to point out the obvious like that.

But that seemed to pull the empress out of her nostalgic reverie. “Indeed,” she said, curtly, and straightened her back. “Which makes this turn of events all the more concerning. Briala knows this palace, knows me, like the back of her hand. Her and Gaspard ... they would complement each other, make a formidable pair. Briala has the cunning, the political mind, and the support of the elves; Gaspard brings legitimacy, the military, and most of the Dalish notables.  If they are working in concert, I’m done for.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. “With all due respect, Madame, that _would_ end the civil war.”

The empress only laughed. “You have guts to say that to my face.” Or a complete lack of sense, Bethany quietly added, blushing furiously. “It is true. Your Inquisition could very well live with the end result, and I don’t intend to convince you otherwise. But know this—I shall not go gently.”

Celene left those words hanging in the cool evening air for a while as she looked out over the city. Bethany had to wonder just what, exactly, ‘not going gently’ entailed. From the corner of her eye, just inside past the balcony doors, she could see a young woman in an Army uniform chatting to one of the guards. A bulky black briefcase was handcuffed to her wrist. A shiver ran down Bethany’s spine as she realised what it must contain.

“All that is why,” the empress said, as casually as if they had been discussing the weather, “I find it rather interesting that Briala has yet to return to the public areas of the palace. In fact, I am informed she is continuing to move towards my personal apartments, evading the guards and staff along the way.”

“You, er ... you think she’s plotting against you?”

Celene’s face fell. “Maker, I hope not. But ... it seems the most likely explanation.” She took a deep breath. “There is something else, Inquisitor. I am telling you this in the understanding that it will remain private. I don’t want you to go and cause a panic, or endanger the peace talks. The guard colonel on duty informs me that several patrols have failed to report in. At least two guardsmen have been found dead on the palace grounds, not far from the residence. The guard has reinforced their presence there, but with half the division fighting demons and rebels down in the Dales ... All we can tell is that the killer isn’t trying to escape. They’re coming in from the outside.”

Clearly, the evening hadn’t already been stressful enough. Equally clear was that the ominous warnings Bethany had received in the future could no longer be discounted as fantasies, neither by herself nor by the Inquisition’s other leaders. “You don’t seem very concerned,” Bethany pointed out. “Not considering. You don’t think they might be trying to assassinate you? That would make Gaspard emperor by default, wouldn’t it?”

Celene merely shrugged. “Assassination isn’t Gaspard’s style. If he wanted me dead, he would have killed me long ago, face to face. But my cousin knows full-well that he stands to lose more than he stands to gain from my death. His legitimacy and authority, such as they are, would be shot to pieces, and the civil war wouldn’t magically end. The empire needs a political solution, and so does our family.”

Somewhat hesitantly, Bethany nodded and bowed slightly. The empress might be unconcerned, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more going on than either of them realised. “I understand. Regardless, Madame, I would advise you to be cautious. By your leave.”

Celene gave a magnanimous little nod. “I was pleased to have finally made your acquaintance, Inquisitor. I hope this won’t be our last interview. In the meantime, enjoy the party.”

She found Leliana waiting for her in the hallway, focused on her phone. She looked up as she approached. “Sorry about that. If I’d known the empress was going to ambush you ...”

Oddly peeved, Bethany brushed her off. She was the Inquisitor, after all, and didn’t require constant chaperoning. “I handled it. Any news?”

Leliana glanced over her shoulder. “Supervisor reports some activity. We think our team may have been spotted. Cullen advises ...”

It would have to wait, Bethany decided, and waved her off. “Tell me if anything actually happens. For now, we’ve got more urgent matters to work on.”

“Oh?”

“Celene’s people are tracking Briala moving towards the imperial residence. She wants us to intercept her, look into what she’s doing, and find out whether she’s working with Gaspard. The empress wasn’t all too subtle about that.”

“She thinks we will be able to establish a connection with her that her own people can’t,” Leliana deduced. “If Briala is aligned with Gaspard, that’s obviously a source of some concern to the empress. The questions remains, what are we supposed to do about it? The Inquisition can’t be seen to take sides, or we’ll lose credibility with everyone involved.”

“If there is a chance that we can contribute to a peaceful resolution, we have to take it. I’m going to try and intercept Briala before she reaches the empress’s suite and figure out where she stands. Prevent her from gaining leverage that could upset the talks, if necessary.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. “Josephine won’t like that. The Inquisitor is one of the stars of this year’s ball; it’s been hard enough to make excuses for your absence when we went to investigate the—the incident earlier.”

“Josephine can handle it.”

“Still, I don’t like it. Did Celene tell you about the assassin zeroing in on the empress as we speak? Putting you in harm’s way is out of the question. I’ll go.”

Bethany was about to protest—she was the Inquisitor, this was her decision to make, and she’d be far more useful out there negotiating with the assemblywoman than she would be making nice with diplomats, nobles and celebrities at the ball—but couldn’t really think of a way to make that line of argument sound convincing. After all, her past attempts at negotiation had been less than stellar, and Cullen was probably still awaiting a decision concerning Operation Supervisor. “... fine,” she ended up saying, probably sounding somewhat snappier than she would have liked. Calpernia wouldn’t take this kind of insubordination, part of her pointed out, and neither would Marian. “Take Lavellan and Varric with you. For safety.”

“If you insist. Go let yourself be seen at the party, for now—take a dance or two with someone inoffensive.”

That forced a somewhat lopsided smile on Bethany’s face as she tried to imagine herself trying not to step on some octogenarian’s feet. “Gee, sounds like fun. See you later, then. Maker be with you.” For an instant, her attention was caught by a rising sound of laughter from the direction of the ballroom. And though she was never really sure if it was actually happening, let alone how she did it, the next time Bethany looked in her direction, Leliana had disappeared without a trace. She grumbled some unkind words under her breath.

Conscious that handling corpses and withering under the glare of an empress can’t have done her appearance any favours, Bethany had a waiter point her to the nearest bathroom. Even if she’d had a purse of cosmetics with her, she wouldn’t have dared touch the uncannily immaculate mask a makeup artist / probable blood mage had replaced her face with just a few hours ago, so there wasn’t much she could do to freshen up beyond washing her hands and adjusting her clothes. Fiddling with her bowtie in front of the gold-framed mirrors, of course, immediately brought the damn thing back to her mind. She didn’t quite feel as though she was going to choke anymore, and supposed that the fact of her having forgotten all about it meant it wasn’t actually as bad as she made it out to be, but she didn’t feel any more comfortable in the unfamiliar garment for that knowledge.

She was washing her hands (vigorously, as if to scratch away the persistent itch in her marked palm) when a young, masked blonde in blue stepped into the otherwise deserted bathroom. Ignoring the line of unoccupied sinks to either side of her, she made a beeline straight for the spot to Bethany’s right and started to do her makeup. _Here we go again ..._

“Having an interesting evening?” Bethany briefly considered asking her straight-out who she was working for, before settling for a noncommittal noise and proceeding to ignore her. “It would appear that the peace talks are at something of a stalemate,” the other woman continued undeterred as she lined up what looked to be eight different eyeliners from her purse by the sink. Bethany wouldn’t have thought it necessary to apply eyeliner at all when one was wearing an Antivan-style mask covering the entire upper portion of one’s face, but then again what did she know. “I hear the empress and the grand duke have yet to meet face to face tonight. I doubt their sherpas even still remember the meaning of ‘sleep’.”

Making no effort to continue the conversation, Bethany dried her hands. “Well, I’m sure cooler heads will prevail in the end. If there is nothing else ...”

Finally, the other woman dropped the game. Very carefully, she put down her eyeliner on the marble countertop. “You are involving yourself in matters which are not your concern, Mme l’Inquisitrice,” she said sweetly. “The Inquisition is celebrated by the people of the Empire because of the severity of the threats which it combats. Everyone can get behind the heroes defending us against demons, heretical templars or Fade-crazed mages. And most people would be greatly satisfied to see the Holy Mother Chantry brought into the Dragon Age at last. Who better to lead the charge than the Herald of our Sacred Lady, following in the footsteps of the late Divine Justinia? And when, if not now, that the old order has been swept away and war ravages the lands of Cantantia?”

Bethany frowned. She’d heard that argument before tonight. “You’re working for Gaspard.”

“I work only for the good of the empire, Madame, only the good of the empire! That there is but one ruler who can give it the strength it needs in these dark times is neither here nor there. I only request that you focus your efforts on those matters which benefit not only you, but all of Cantantia, while avoiding the quagmire of petty intrigue and partisanship.” The lady gave a deep curtsy. “Please bear the honest well-wishes of an admirer in mind as you proceed with your holy task, Mme l’Inquisitrice. Enjoy your evening.”

Bethany conjured a small flame in her fist as she watched the younger woman leave. The heat was almost calming. _If anyone else wishes me a good evening tonight with that two-faced smile on their lips ..._ Then, she forced herself to release her fist, and the flame with it. There was no point in getting upset. Of course Gaspard would have noticed her interview with the empress, and of course he’d try to counter-steer.

She took some deep breaths to steady herself, then looked herself over in the mirror. She still didn’t look like anyone she recognised, but that wasn’t a bad thing. With a sigh, she left the bathroom and returned to the Hall of Homage.

The ball was in full swing: an orchestra had set up on the narrow end of the hall opposite the sunlit throne, playing a lively waltz, and pairs of dancers were crowding the floor, revolving around each other and around the room like orbitals, watched from the sidelines by more-or-less appreciative crowds. Bethany’s own experiences with dance did not extend beyond the faint memory of listening to her high school classmates chat about the lessons they’d undertaken in preparation for their Leavers’ Ball, but she had to admit there was something hypnotising about the smooth motions of the dancers, the orbits within orbits and graceful rhythms, the swirling of gowns and sharp contrasts of black tailcoats and white shirt fronts and gloves.

Perhaps she had let herself become just a bit too entranced, for she barely noticed the lady approaching her until they were almost face to face. “Your Imperial Highness,” she said, blinking slightly. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Florianne smiled. She was wearing a delicate gilded filigree mask that would not have hidden her features from any but the most casual observer. “Indeed there is, Madame l’Inquisitrice. You may dance with me. Come.” The grand duchess reached out her hand, and before she knew what she was doing, Bethany had taken it and found herself being led slowly but firmly to the dance floor.

“I, er, I fear I’ll embarrass you. I’m—not much of a dancer.”

“That’ll be quite alright,” Florianne said, undeterred. “I’ll lead.”

Remembering her lessons through the trance of acute panic, Bethany remembered to bow as the orchestra launched into a stately polka, and received a curtsy in turn—and then the grand duchess’s hand was in hers, and her arm slung around her waist, and they were moving, jumping and turning in step with the rhythm. Bethany’s skin felt red-hot, and not by the physical exertion.

“I am surprised,” she gasped, her palm pressed against the grand duchess’s as they moved around each other, hip to hip and face to face, “that you approached me so early. After all ...” (Perhaps this was getting to her.) “After all, I was only just talking to your brother’s messenger.”

Florianne arched an elegant brow. “I’m not here on Gaspard’s behalf. Or rather, not by his request.” Clasping her hand, she made her pirouette and land in her arms so naturally that even Bethany herself for a moment thought she had done so on her own. “You also have an older sibling, don’t you? Your sister.”

A chill went down her spine, immediately driving away whatever excitement she might have felt, but she nodded and tried to hide her discomfort. “Yes. Marian.”

“Then you understand what it means. Even my darling brother tends to forget I exist, much less what I can do for him.”

“It sounds frustrating,” she responded diplomatically. Bethany couldn’t speak to that herself—Marian had never cut her out or underestimated her abilities, hardly. But she had never asked her advice either, or questioned whether she would support her decisions. All of that had gone without saying, from the day Marian had joined the military via the expedition to the Deep Roads to their separation in the days following the Kirkwall rebellion.

Now Florianne gave a thin-lipped smile. “Quite. Still, that is why I am talking to you now.” For a moment they separated, and when they were face-to-face again, the grand duchess’s smile had been replaced by a mask of cool calculation. “At this point, it has become impossible to deny the unusual activity around the palace tonight. If I’m not mistaken, you were involved in at least some of it quite closely.”

“You could say that,” she responded, somewhat cautiously. Surely she must know at least as much as herself? Unless Gaspard was truly keeping her in the dark for whatever reason. A suspicion arose within her: after all, she knew Florianne was one of the mediators who had arranged the peace talks. If her brother was keeping the incursions into the palace and the assassinations secret from her, it seemed to imply he did not want the empress to hear about it from her. “It is true that there have been a series of ... incidents,” she allowed, catching herself as an idea came to her. “The Inquisition is assisting palace authorities in any way we can, though. In fact, we have already apprehended the intruder who was infiltrating the palace through the gardens.” There, she thought, let’s see where this leads. If Leliana’s people found anyone probing into Inquisition activities in that area of the palace grounds, they would reveal themselves as being Florianne’s team. And from then on ... the gears in her mind were turning. If things went well, they might be able to co-opt one of either Gaspard’s or Celene’s principal agents while gaining a powerful ally in the imperial family, should neither claim turn out to be true.

But the expression on Florianne’s face, quick though it had come and gone, was not one she had expected. “Truly?” she asked, urgently sliding her hand in Bethany’s down to clasp her wrist, a mix of fear and shock plain in her voice. Then, she relaxed her features and regained her composure. “Apologies. I had not heard of this before. This is, of course, excellent news. But—you mean to say there have been multiple incidents? What about the other assassin? The elf who murdered the councillors’ aides.”

Bethany frowned. It was true Engraver had speculated the killer was an elf, but she had no idea where Florianne had gotten that from. Rumours spread fast in Halamshiral, evidently. “We’re working on that,” she admitted.

“Of course. I have full confidence in the Inquisition. I have also ordered the Imperial Guard to reinforce their presence in the west wing, just to make sure something like this happens again. In truth, I have my own suspicions.”

“Oh?”

“There can be only one person who benefits from sabotaging the peace talks: the one who has the most influence to use, who would be reduced to insignificance once her votes are no longer needed.”

“You mean Briala.”

The grand duchess smiled and led Bethany into a swift pirouette. “Think about it, Inquisitor. My cousin and brother both have too much to gain at the negotiation table, and too much to lose through crude violence.”

Bethany bit her lip (then caught and forced herself not to). There was no denying that Florianne had a point there, but given the empress’s suspicions ... “If we assume Briala is responsible, what makes you think she’s working on her own? If your brother were to win the throne, he would be just as dependent on her votes in the National Assembly as the empress is now. Except unlike now, none of the other parties would be willing to support Gaspard’s government.”

The grand duchess scoffed. “I would be surprised. We both know my brother ... doesn’t have a mind for politics. He’s in this fight because he sees the throne as his birthright and his sacred duty, and is content enough to leave the details to his advisors. If there is any connection, he won’t know a thing about it.”

That did not absolve him of responsibility, Bethany knew, but left it at that. Still, there was something else that had stuck with her—Florianne’s off-handed comment about standing in her brother’s shadow. “Your brother doesn’t have any children, does he?”

Barely hidden behind her mask, Florianne raised an eyebrow. “He does not,” she said cautiously. “His union with poor late Calienne was never blessed.”

“Then if the empress were to die and Gaspard take her place, you would be the heiress presumptive. First in line to the imperial throne. And, of course, the same would be true if Gaspard were to pass away.”

The grand duchess’ features hardened, and her hands tightened their grasp around Bethany. “I don’t think I like what you’re implying.”

 _I bet you do._ “Of course not. My apologies, I didn’t mean to offend.” She couldn’t hide the smile from her face. It hardly amounted to anything, she knew, but in some way this felt like a victory. _She wanted me to believe Briala had the aides murdered. And Celene pointed me towards her as well. I think it’s time to meet the assemblywoman on everyone’s lips myself._

 

* * *

 

 

Halfway across the empire—which is to say, the _real_ empire, the fertile, populous crescent stretching from Halamshiral to Val Firmin in the west and Val Chevin in the north—the last guests shuffled out of a large, warm office with a view of the Old Quad of Toussaint College below its latticed gothic windows. It was one of those offices that were wonderful to curl up in and read the hours away, provided a college porter kept the fire in the chimney going and the cat didn’t ruin the worn old Qunari rugs and well-used upholstery in the many mismatched armchairs and sofas many an unprepared undergrad had squirmed on, squeezed in between overflowing bookcases. The window panes, radiator plumbing and electrical wiring may not have been replaced in half a century, but then they had nothing on the carved figures on the mantlepiece: dragons, griffons, and a strange chimera that few people now recognised as the mythical aardvark. It was the office of Dr Marcel Faber, Imperatorius Professor of Modern History, FIS, FIHS, FNA. That may not have been what he introduced himself as, but it was in his email signature.

As the last of the guests departed, Marcel now found himself clearing away the remaining glasses. They’d heard a fascinating paper by a colleague in town from Ostwick and continued their discussion of it over an even more fascinating bottle of old port (or two), so that the hour had gone rather later than usual. Some of the others would pay for it in their 9am lectures.

The college mouser, Fernand, brushed against Marcel’s leg on the way to whatever bit of rug had drawn its interest. Fernand had lived in this office for as long as anyone could remember, undeterred by varying human occupants, and these days only rarely left its warmth to earn his keep. Years of faithful service had earned him the right to share the office, and have its door opened and closed whenever he wished to go in or out (or not).

Humming faintly and wildly off-tune, Marcel carried the port glasses and decanter to the sink in the small adjoining room, when he noticed a light in one of the windows across the quad, warm and bright behind gauzy curtains. The Old Quad was surrounded entirely by offices, not students’ rooms, and all the seminar rooms were on his side of the courtyard. He didn’t have to think long to remember whose office that was: he had noticed its occupant working late every night for the past week or two. “Might as well get it over with now that everyone else’s gone home ...” he murmured to himself, put down the glasses and decanter by the sink, and returned to his desk, where he sent a quick message from his phone.

Very soon, while he was washing the glasses, he noticed the light across the quad turn off, followed by a slight figure hurrying across the lawn: barefoot as always, judging by her skipping gait on the cold, damp grass, with her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of a coat. Soon after, there was a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he called, returning to his office with two clean glasses and the remainder of the port, just as Merrill Sabrae, Lecturer in Elven Antiquities, put her tattooed head through the door. He’d heard that some colleagues had initially mistaken her for a student, but unlike new-agey teenage elves painting their faces with henna and peppering their sentences with mangled elven, Merrill’s Dalish credentials were indisputable. “Come in, come in,” he repeated. “Have a seat. Can I offer you anything? Port, tea, water?”

“Just tea, please,” she answered, barely more than a whisper. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

He observed her from the corner of his eye as he put the kettle on, squirming awkwardly on the edge of an ancient armchair humans twice her breadth had gotten lost in. She was pale, he noticed, more so than usual, and from the way her coat draped around her waifish form, he suspected she’d lost more than a few kilograms of weight recently. “You should have joined us for the seminar earlier,” he mentioned. “Ellyn—Ellyn Brooker from Ostwick—was here, talking about the Storm Age reception and negotiation of elven ruins in the Dales. Figured that would have been right up your alley.”

“Oh, I ... I thought that was Wednesday.”

Marcel paused. “Today _is_ Wednesday.” He took a seat opposite her. “Listen, Merrill, there’s something the faculty council has asked me to discuss with you. How long have you been here now,,? Ten months?”

“Eleven next week.”

“Right. Now, you know how thrilled all of us in the department are to have you here, not to mention the College. As you know the university council had some concerns about hiring you given your, uh, unique background, but we were convinced you’d make a fantastic addition to the faculty.” Realising how that must sound, he quickly added: “Which you are.”

“Thank you,” the elf murmured, shifting uncomfortably. The kettle beeped, and Marcel rose again to pour the tea.

Now for the difficult part, though. “Still, there have been some ... complaints. From students. About you.” He paused, waited in vain for a reply. “Merrill, is it true that you failed to show up for your undergraduate seminar on _Cultures of Magic and Magical Cultures_ last week?”

The elf shifted and avoided his eyes. “I’ve been very busy,” she murmured.

“So have I, but you know that’s no excuse. After the initial complaint, we’ve heard from other students, claiming that you’d failed to mark work they’d submitted months ago. And you haven’t published anything either, as far as I’m aware. Our students ...” He broke off with a sigh and rubbed his temples. “Listen, I know this is still all new to you, and I can’t even begin to comprehend what you must have been through in Kirkwall. But you need to fulfil your contractual obligations. You’re in a unique position as is—I can’t think of anyone else who was elected to an early career fellowship at Toussaint without having any formal education, let alone a doctorate. If not for Ferdinand Genitivi’s glowing recommendation, we would never have gotten the college council to bring you on board. If you keep this sort of thing up, I can’t guarantee that you’ll be confirmed when your probationary period ends next month. Do you understand?”

Merrill quietly nodded. “I’ll do better.”

“I know this can’t be easy for you. Academia can be pretty soul-crushing, especially if you’re not used to it. When I first got a fellowship, I was in for a pretty major culture shock, and that was after almost a decade at university, whereas you’re in completely new waters here.” He paused. “It’s too early for you to take a sabbatical, but if you like, I can recommend some people you could talk to. The college counsellor is very good, or ...”

Marcel hadn’t expected the elf to interrupt him (ever), but she did. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’m fine. Thank you for trying to help, but I don’t need any. I’ll do better, I-I promise.”

Hesitantly, he nodded. He felt like the villain here. “Right. Well, we’ll see how it goes. But, please—there’s no shame in seeking help. If you don’t want to talk to a professional, my door is always open.”

The elf continued to avoid his gaze and murmured something incomprehensible as she rose from the armchair. He escorted her to the door, then briefly watched her hurry down the hallway. Such a promising young mind, he thought with a heavy heart. He gave her a year, at most.

 

* * *

 

 

Merrill was seething as she stormed down the narrow, deserted corridors, ancient floorboards that creaked under each human footfall barely making a sound under her bare feet. Along the walls, the dusty portraits of long-dead humans appeared to mock her delusions. _Of course_ this had happened, she had been a gullible fool to hope it wouldn’t. _Stupid Merrill, lazy Merrill, good-for-nothing dangerous monster Merrill ..._

Darn it, she should never have taken Ferdinand up on his offer. She wasn’t—this wasn’t right, she knew, not her place. It sounded so easy, listening to her colleagues chatting when she dared take lunch at the high table in hall: teach this class, publish in that journal, lead an interdisciplinary research centre along the way ... She didn’t have to look at the faculty website and see herself listed as one of a handful of ‘Mme’s among dozens of professors and doctors to know that she didn’t belong here. It was obvious in the way students mistook her for a classmate, in the bare walls of her office, and in the way everyone seemed to be on tiptoes around her, as if at any moment the dangerous, unhinged Dalish apostate from Kirkwall might erupt in a whirlstorm of blood. It was obvious in the way Ferdinand’s infrequent emails no longer asked how her work was going (because they both knew the answer would always be the same).

She took the narrow, slippery stone stairs from the quad to her office in fast, furious bounds, and found herself face to face with a door that simply read ‘Mme Merrill’, struggling with her keys. In the dark, and given the state she had worked herself up into, it was all she could do not to drop them. Finally, she tore open the door and reached for the light switch.

“Good  evening.”

Merrill froze at the unfamiliar voice. As the lights slowly came to life, she saw a strange woman before her, standing in her office as though it was her own and leafing through one of her notebooks. “Uh, are you a student? You really shouldn’t be in here ...” But even as she said that, she realised that this was a foolish guess. The woman’s clothes were clearly expensive, from the slinky purple diagonally-cut jacket to the skinny black leather trousers and laced boots, she carried herself with obvious self-assurance, and, most alarmingly, had a plain wooden mage’s staff pinned under her arm. At once, Merrill’s eyes flew to the large file cabinet in the corner of the room. With some relief, she saw that she had locked it before leaving, and it had not been opened.

Accordingly, the strange mage ignored the question and turned to face her. “My name is Morrigan,” she said, calm and melodious as though she hadn’t just invaded a stranger’s office in the dead of night. “I have been searching for you for quite some time. Though I did not expect to meet in person.”

Merrill did her best to look stern and intimidating, though she feared little more came of it than a frown. One of the dozens of precise, straight scars on her left forearm was itching, and without noticing she moved to scratch it. Where was her razor? Desk drawer, right. “And what do you want from me? If this is about Kirkwall, I’m done with that part of my life, and I want nothing more to do with it.”

“Kirkwall doesn’t interest me,” Morrigan said, closing the notebook and setting it on Merrill’s desk. “But since you are here, you might as well spare me the search. I have your notes, where are the shards?”

She froze as the room temperature seemed to drop by half. How could this be? No one knew about them, no one at all. Not even Varric had known she had gathered up most of the shattered mirror to secreted it away, let alone that she had escaped Kirkwall with them. And she had always been careful, keeping the pieces separate unless her experiments demanded otherwise, half at her home and half in her office ... once again, her eyes went towards the locked cabinet in the corner. This time, the stranger Morrigan noticed, and smirked.

“Very good. I shall be taking them.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. There are no shards of anything here.”

The stranger rolled her eyes. “Do not take me for a fool. I know they are here.” She looked around the cramped office. “I wonder, where?” Slipping her hand down her staff, she used it to tap lightly against the desk, the bookshelves, the couch, holding the heavy branch as easily as though it was a mere twig. “Could it be so simple?” The staff’s head came to rest on the file cabinet.

“Stop it!” It took Merrill a moment to realise that it was she who had spoken. “They won’t be any use to you. And—they’re not yours,” she added between ground teeth. “I won’t let you have them.” She felt her fingernails digging into her palms.

At that, however, Morrigan merely scoffed. “I will have my patrimony, which is mine by right. One way ...” She switched her staff to her dominant hand, and let its endcap slam against the floor. “... or the other.”

One crucial moment was all it took for Merrill to be blindsided. From one instant to the next, the woman in front of her had _shifted_ and in her stead stood a great mass of quivering flesh and midnight-blue fur and claws—the bear was upon her before she had time to properly react, slamming her down that her head felt like it had split on the old stone steps by the door, and pinning her down under its weight. Above her, a narrow snout and drooling mouth full of teeth. The bear raised its paw to strike and crush her head—

Merrill unleashed all her mana in a wild, unfocused blast, not a spell but an exertion of raw, unbridled Will. The force hit the bear square in its chest, and it was hurled away from her, flying through the room until it impacted hard against a bookshelf. Cheap plywood burst under the weight, and even the ancient stone walls seemed to groan and quiver under the impact. This time, she saw the change coming; saw the bear grow leaner and its limbs lengthening unnaturally, heard the sickening wet sound of bone and flesh realigning themself. She could hardly stand to watch, and instead scrambled to her feet and picked up the heavy oaken staff Morrigan had dropped when she’d transformed.

A bolt of lightning  came her way, then faded against her instinctively-raised barrier. Well, that had been easier—oh, shoo. It had been a feint, she realised, as her weakened barrier was shattered by the impact of two more lightning bolts, both considerably more powerful than the first. _Clever._ Whoever this Morrigan was, she clearly had experience in battlemagic, not to mention the shapeshifting. To buy time, Merrill replenished her barrier, and realised how drained she felt. She had extended so much of her mana in pushing the bear off her that she was not sure she would be able to sustain another barrage ...

The human had recovered as well, stumbling just a little bit—dizzy from the impact, perhaps? Or was it the sudden transformation back into human shape? No matter; Merrill raised the staff and used its unfamiliar shaping to channel residual mana seeping in even now through a loosening Veil, sending tufts of flame her opponent’s way. The witch clearly was not overly bothered by them, as her fingers stretched and distorted in an intricate gesture unfamiliar to Merrill—what was she shaping? No time! With a lunge and a cry, she hurled herself at the human woman, striking out with the butt of the staff for want of mana. A blow to the thigh, then to the upper arm, before Morrigan grew wise to it and gracefully sidestepped her next strike.

The brief bout, however, had bought her time, and let her recover a little mana. She had to end this quickly, she knew; every moment that passed with her scraping at the bottom of the barrel put her at a disadvantage. But now, Morrigan was off-balance, and distracted; she would expect another blow with the staff: Merrill bundled her thoughts, her Will, stretched it until it formed a point, then a spear, and as she unleashed one more strike with the tip of Morrigan’s staff as a feint, she released it like a javelin—

Nothing happened, she felt her eyes widen as she realised what had happened. That gesture she couldn’t figure out? The blow hit air much as the spear had, striking the wall behind the witch where the bookshelf had been. The bookshelf; she had recently purchased a copy of _Modalities of Ritual Performance in Middle Period Mythalic Cults_ by Ettore Grimaldi of Antiva which she’d been meaning to read, she’d met him once at a conference and stammered her way through an introduction, that had been in midsummer and she’d drunken _spritz_ on a restaurant terrace watching the sun set on the roofs of Rialto; such a beautiful city (she’d only been once)! In the Towers Age, the city had been home to a quaint local festival involving a bull with tomatoes pierced on its horns, and oh befuddle she’d been hexed.

Accordingly, she barely saw the black swarm of insects—no, not insects, manifestations of sheer chaos playing havoc on the fabric of reality, taking now the shape of a mosquito, now that of a hornet, now reverting to that of a perfect sphere and oh for June’s sake, focus! The swarm enveloped her without physically touching her body, but she could feel it sapping her strength by its mere presence, as though her very cells were rebelling against this affront to reality. She had enough presence of mind to establish a simple arcane shield around her, unable to think of a spell that would have defended her better, or dispelled the swarm, without exerting a ruinous amount of her meagre mana reserves. If it had an impact on the draining of her strength, she did not feel it, but the hex had been broken and her thoughts cleared, despite the thumping in the back of her skull that had taken its place.

She had no time to figure out if that had been caused by the fall, the magical exertion, or something far worse, for through the black curtain of the entropic swarm she saw Morrigan preparing her coup de grace. This time, she recognised the gesture; it was one of the optimised and peer-reviewed Circle spells she had originally learned from Anders and Bethany in their first year in Kirkwall, though in Morrigan’s fingers (or were those talons?) it looked more like a contortionist dance than the minimal one-two-three mnemonic she was used to.

Though she saw it coming, she could muster no way to act against it, and sound found her body _squeezed_ from all sides by a telekinetic vice, its grip slowly tightening—except that it wasn’t on _all_ sides. Indeed, her limbs had remained unaffected even as her chest was constricted and her eyes and eardrums pushed inwards. For a moment, confusion flared within her, then she realised that Morrigan had cast a different, far more elaborate version of the spell than she was familiar with. Rather than imprisoning her victim in a simple cylinder that applied force to different body parts at different times, the witch had shaped her _Crushing Prison_ around her like a bespoke garment, leaving the limbs free as what must be a cost-cutting measure. _How much mana does she have to waste?_ But it also left her one more opportunity. This was her office, and she knew exactly where she was: right in front of the desk.

She drew on her remaining reserves of mana to push the faltering ward towards her enemy, stunning her once more—at once, the pressure from the _Prison_ intensified, blocking out most other sensations, but she had to find her knife. Where was her knife? Right top desk drawer, right behind her; focusing as best she could, blindly, she fumbled for the drawer—there! No, damn it, wrong side. Morrigan had noticed what she was doing and bound her wrists in place, all the while intensifying the pressure on her. Her brain screamed for oxygen, her eyes felt close to bursting, desperately she tried to find some mana left in her—

Like a scythe, her Will cut across her palm, drawing blood. At once, conjoined with the pain, she felt the familiar dull pressure at the back of her skull, felt the feelers reaching out from Beyond, enveloping her. As her life’s blood dripped onto the carpet, her body became supercharged, her muscles prickling and her senses sharpening, her heart racing as raw, unbridled power came not from the Fade, but from within her: through sheer force, she broke through the _Prison_ and dispelled the swarm and launched into the counterattack.

The heavy oaken staff came alive in her hands, dead wood moving as though alive, serpentine, to attack its onetime mistress, putting her off-balance with rapid strikes it was all she could do to ward off. Merrill widened the cut on her palm, relishing the pain that came with the torrential burst of power. How long had it been since she’d fought like this? Lightning gathered in her hands and around her brow, blowing through Morrigan’s feeble barriers one by one, until it singed her clothes and made her gasp in pain.

“I won’t let you take them,” Merrill ground out between clenched teeth, half to herself, half to her opponent, and with one final effort, reached out with all the strength of her mind. She sought and found the sympathetic connection, exerted her Will upon it, and _twisted ..._ For a long, terrible moment, neither of them moved, and Merrill saw the horror of understanding dawning on Morrigan’s face.

Then, the silence was shattered by a bestial scream, scarcely recognisable as human, as Morrigan’s body quivered and twisted under Merrill’s firm control and the witch’s veins filled with liquid fire. At first, her skin turned purple as blood vessels burst under the pressure. Then, her skin began to form blisters. Morrigan’s eyes—she did not look at the eyes. The scream turned into a gargle, then into a whimper, then it was gone. The body looked scarcely human when she let go of it and it sank to the floor. The nauseating stink of boiling flesh filled the air, causing her to choke. Morrigan did not move. The staff resumed its original form and slid to the ground by its mistress’ side.

She was panting from the exertion, her heart beating hard and fast. Dark shapes danced before her eyes, gradually subsiding along with the pressure at the base of her skull. The whispers, and the grasping tentacles faded until they were scarcely noticeable. Merrill forced herself to take deep breaths: in, out, in, out, until her natural connection to the Fade had reasserted itself over the wild throbbing in her palm.

With calm came perspective. When she opened her eyes again, she was still in her office, now demolished. There was a chill in the air, and none of the electric charge she remembered, but the damage to the Veil was as plain to see as a torn curtain. Before her, on a blood-soaked carpet and surrounded by the tattered books, lay the disfigured and abused corpse of a human woman, motionless. Merrill took a deep breath, forced her fists to unclench, then sank to her hands and knees.

For a moment, she hovered there, in that dreadful in-between state between nausea and emesis, though finding neither the release the latter would have brought nor the clarity of  the former. She was shivering—why was it so cold all of a sudden? Now that the adrenaline had subsided and her heart rate dropped, she was starting to feel the pain, as well: groaning, she slowly forced herself to her feet. Looking around her ruined office, she adjusted the belt on her coat. Her own staff was still in the corner she’d left it in. Morrigan’s lay at her feet, still vibrating faintly from the magic that had coursed through it.

And still, a dead woman lay before her, murdered by her hand. It wasn’t that she hadn’t done it before. Nor could she say she particularly regretted killing Morrigan. But it had never been so ... personal. _Oh, Elgar’nan, what have I done?_ She—she would have to hide the body, and ... and she’d lose her job, and her home, and what about her research, and ...

 _Varric._ Varric would know what to do, he knew his way around this sort of thing. And he was—he was with the Inquisition, wasn’t he, with Bethany, she’d seen him on TV. She’d be safe, or as safe as she could ever be, if she could get them to help her. Merrill couldn’t quite place the shiver that ran down her spine: fear? Anticipation? No matter.

She packed only a few things: her notes and reading glasses, a few small mementos she kept in her office, and of course the heavy album containing the shards, each individually wrapped in felt. For a moment, she was tempted to open it, cast just a few quick spells before the battle rush subsided and the cut on her palm closed—but thought better of it. There would be more than enough time—eventually. “I’ll solve your secret yet,” she murmured as she stuffed the album in her bag.

Then, having one last look around—at the broken furniture, the bloodstains, the mutilated corpse—Merrill grabbed her staff and walked down into the quad, leaving the door open. Despite the battle that had overlooked it, it was calm out here, and she sucked in the cold winter air. Every ancient cobble stone felt distinct under her bare soles, but not familiar. Slowly, leaning on her staff, she walked out of the deserted college into the brightly-lit street lined by ancient colleges, stately libraries and cheap eateries. Not a person was in sight. She accelerated her steps, finding firmer footing on the pavement than on the cobblestones, and then broke into a jog, and by the time she knew what she was doing, she was running.

 

* * *

 

 

Finding Briala was easier said than done. Bethany had not taken into account the sheer size of the winter palace.

As they were led by torchlight through corridor after unlit corridor lined with covered and wrapped artworks, Engraver lectured the Inquisitor, Dorian, Solas and Varric on the nature of the complex: informing them, for instance, that the palace numbered over 1600 rooms, including a chapel, a library containing over a million volumes, and a full-sized theatre. The west wing alone contained about three hundred fireplaces and twenty-eight staircases. At present, less than five hundred rooms were occupied or in use—largely by the empress’s personal staff and household. The west wing, meanwhile, and its numerous state apartments, had not been used in years.

This, Engraver pointed out, meant that security and staff presence was minimal, that power, heating and even running water were inaccessible in large parts of the wing, and that there were a million places to hide. “I can’t tell you where Briala is,” she explained apologetically. “All I can do is point you towards her most likely location. Better known as the imperial apartment.”

“She’s spent all evening here,” Varric pointed out. “This isn’t a simple get in, get out affair. She’s searching for something—something very well-hidden.”

“Hidden documents? Secret letters that could be used as blackmail against her, maybe?”

“Or against the empress,” Dorian pointed out. “Celene can’t be eager to read about her affair with an elven politician in the papers.”

“Either way, Celene doesn’t want her getting it. And neither, it seems, does Gaspard.”

They proceeded further into the west wing, past statues and paintings and tall arched windows overlooking sprawling gardens in the moonlight. Bethany would never have found her own way here, and wondered how Engraver managed. The elf certainly didn’t have to resort to a map as she led the party through seemingly endless rooms and corridors. “There,” the agent finally announced, stopping in front of a somewhat nondescript pair of doors. “The grand apartment is through there. I need to return to my duties. Good luck.” And before Bethany could ask how they were supposed to find their way back, the elf had disappeared into the darkness.

“Let’s hope Briala is here after all,” Dorian said, sighing. “I was eyeing those little canapés when you dragged me out here.”

Bethany lightly tried the door. To her surprise, it opened easily, having been unlocked. They entered into a large vestibule, unlit like every other room they had passed through, and filled with furniture covered in plastic. The next room was a smaller parlour, then a private dining room, an office—next, she knew, was the imperial bedchamber, and still no light. She reached for the door handle.

“You won’t find anything there, Inquisitor.”

Somehow unsurprised, she turned to face the speaker, a diminutive brunette elf in a baggy green pantsuit. “Assemblywoman Briala,” Bethany said, nodding her head slightly. “We meet at last.”

The smile that flashed across the elf’s face was bereft of mirth. “I wish I could have made my introductions at the party. As it is, I fear I look rather too much the part of the devious criminal.”

“You can’t deny this doesn’t look good. Celene and Gaspard both suspect you of foul play. What are you doing here? What have you been looking for?”

Briala raised an eyebrow. “The answer to that depends on how much you already know.”

“What about?”

The assemblywoman clucked her tongue. “From the beginning, then. How about you open that door?”

Somewhat hesitantly, she followed the suggestion, and Varric by her side lit out the room behind it with his torch. As Bethany was about to step inside, she thought better of it, and waved for Briala to precede her. “After you.”

If the elf was insulted by the demand, she didn’t show it, and walked ahead of them into the bedchamber. Bethany conjured up a ball of light in her palm as she followed, bathing the room in a cold blue light. The empress’ bed was massive, canopied, and positively covered in gold decorations, and raised behind a gilded balustrade that separated it from the rest of the room. And while the gold shone eerily in the magelight, that was not what caught her attention. “Is that ...”

“An eluvian.”

Gaping, Bethany looked up and down the mirror. She remembered sitting with Merrill at her apartment in the Alienage, helping her clean the blighted shards she had brought with her from Ferelden and put them back together. But her friend’s mirror had been miniscule by comparison. This one towered over them, a sleek and imposing rectangular monolith reflecting their awed faces.

“Holy shit,” Varric murmured behind her. She had to concur.

“From your reaction, I suspect you’re familiar with them.”

“Yes,” Bethany muttered, still fixed on the mirror. “A good friend of mine had one—it had been destroyed. She was trying to restore it.”

“She gave up on it after you left, though. We—that is, your sister, Blondie and I—eventually convinced her to destroy it. That damn thing was eating her up inside.”

Solas scoffed. “That was no fault of the mirror. They are tools, nothing more.” He turned to Briala. “I confess I know but little of the eluvians. But it seems to me they are useless trifles, bereft of the power they once held without some way to activate them.”

The assemblywoman chuckled at that and crossed her arms. “You are better-informed than you give yourself credit for. Here’s something new, though: there is a master key. A single keystone that can unlock every eluvian in existence. It was created about two years ago by a powerful desire demon called Imshael, at the behest of a Dalish clan. To make a long story short, first the empress came into possession of the stone, then I.”

“I suppose we needn’t wonder what sort of things the empress and yourself were of mind to do with it,” Solas scoffed, even as Bethany’s head was still spinning at the idea of instantaneous transportation between any two mirrors in the world. “Once, the eluvians served to build a starlit empire that span across Thedas. But in this day and age, I should expect everyone’s minds immediately turned towards conquest and brutality.”

Bethany thought it better not to ask whether Solas might be overly idealising Arlathan. She didn’t know much ancient history, but you didn’t get to be an empire without a fair bit of conquest and brutality. So she turned to Briala. “If that is true, then how come neither Celene nor you have used the mirrors? If I’m not mistaken, you could end the civil war in a heartbeat with them.”

“Indeed.” Briala smiled. “The weapon to end all wars, that’s how Celene described it to me. Numbers become irrelevant if you can move halfway across the continent in seconds. When we destroyed Vyrantium during the Great War, Templar commandos had to personally smuggle the bomb into the city at great risk. Now, we have planes and missiles, but those take time to reach their targets and can be destroyed en route. With the eluvians, all you need to slaughter millions on the other side of the world is a good, hard push.”

A chill ran down Bethany’s spine. What had the empress said, again? _I shall not go gently._ For that matter, she had to wonder what others would do with the power of the eluvians. Gaspard certainly was no saint, and neither was Briala. Perhaps, after all, the only reason the world had yet to go up in flame and madness was that everyone was equally afraid of the escalation

“The truth is,” Briala continued quite calmly, “that I can no longer access the network. I don’t know what caused the change. I thought I had locked Celene out, permanently, when I took the keystone from her. Evidently, though, she’s found another way.”

“Are you sure she has regained control?” Solas asked. “Perhaps the eluvians themselves turned against being abused.”

The assemblywoman scoffed. “If I knew how she had taken control, I would not be here. My agents informed me that the empress regularly met with an apostate of some notoriety here in this room, an advisor of sorts. I put two and two together and here I am.”

“An apostate?”

“A Fereldan woman, named Morrigan. I don’t know how she came into Celene’s employ, but from what I hear she’s a known maleficar who fought in the Blight. For the past year, she has been travelling around Thedas, tracking down eluvians and information about eluvians.”

Bethany frowned. “So you were trying to find out what they’d done to lock you out. That explains why Celene wanted me to suspect you of being behind the murders. Does Gaspard know?”

“He has used them himself. Neither of them want to risk me regaining control of the eluvian network. They know I wouldn’t use it to benefit them.”

“What _have_ you been using them for, then,” Dorian interjected. “Because all I’m seeing is a conniving two-bit politician complaining about how the other kids won’t play nice. I don’t believe for one second that you have no skeletons in your closet.”

The elf merely shrugged. “True enough. I will disappoint you, though—most of my explorations through the network were spent opening and exploring new connections. Eventually ... well. There are matters that require action. Strong, decisive action, not good intentions hampered by parliamentary procedure. I would like to believe the Inquisition shares some of my priorities.”

 _You haven’t actually told us any of your priorities._ “Why are you telling us all this?” Bethany asked eventually. “You could have made up a story. We would not have known about the eluvians if not for you.”

“Would you have believed me I was trying to recover some sentimental keepsake at the risk of my life? Perhaps I forgot my toothbrush when I left. I know you probably came here suspecting me of having murdered Council aides and plotting to assassinate the empress. All I can say to that is the truth.”

Bethany turned away and, with a sigh, reached up to massage her brows. This was all very interesting, no question there, but she had about enough of this. And they were still no closer to finding any trace of the assassin. “Return to the ballroom with us,” she said. “That is not a request, by the way.”

Briala gave an elaborate bow. “I surrender myself to the most holy Inquisition, then. My search here has been fruitless one way or the other. It is time I attend ...”

The door to the bedchamber was opened, then closed. Something small and heavy rolled across the floor, clattering on the marble until it came to a halt before Varric’s feet. “What the— _move!”_

He needn’t have said it, and in fact his words were swallowed by the commotion as people leaped away best they could, trying to get clear—Bethany had remained frozen, rooted to the ground, and stared at the grenade, not quite sure of what was going on. What was—

A flash of light, bright as the morning sun, piercing and glaring like a spear. A thunderclap that set her ears ringing and caused her to stagger. _Maker_ , the conscious part of her cried, _Maker, protect your servant—_

Stumbling, she bumped into the balustrade and steadied herself on it. Evidently, she was yet alive, though she could neither see nor hear. “What ... what was ...”

Only seconds later had her eyes adjusted sufficiently that she could make out Dorian, crouched in the centre of the room, collapsed over a shimmering dome he had conjured. The marble floor inside of it was blackened with soot. “Dorian!” Ears still ringing, she stumbled to his side. He did not move, nor open his eyes, as she knelt by his side. “Dorian, can you hear me?” Bethany reached for his wrist ... there, a pulse. And there, shallow breaths.

“He’s drained,” Solas coughed from behind him, rousing himself from the imperial bed to which he had leapt. “His mana—that was quick thinking. We would be dead if not for his shield.”

“Maker’s breath, Sunshine, we can’t even go to parties without people trying to kill us. Did anyone catch who attacked us?”

“I ... I think I’ve got an idea. That agent of yours ...”

But Bethany was already out of the door before Briala had finished the suggestion. Was that—there, around the corner! Her fireball only barely missed the hem of a maid uniform, blasting the bookshelf behind instead. Instantly, it collapsed; she had to shield herself from falling volumes as she ran past. “Stop!” she shouted, “Engraver!” Another corner, the dining room, with no one inside and two doors—at random, she picked the one on the right, and was proven right by the sight of a dark silhouette running down the corridor in front of her. _Got you now ... Winter’s Grasp._

 

* * *

 

 

She watched the Inquisitor’s return alongside Briala from the gallery, sipping champagne as below them the empress withdrew into private consultations with the Herald. When she returned the empty flute to a wandering servant and reached for another, the phone in her purse rang.

The person on the other end wasted no time on pleasantries. _“Our friend has failed.”_

“I can see that. There’ll be another opportunity.”

 _“No. Celene dies tonight._ There was a pause. She silently cursed her mysterious backer; that distortion made it nearly impossible to get hidden meanings. Thankfully, the voice soon added clarification. _“You will do it.”_

She almost dropped her champagne flute. “You—you can’t be serious. This is not what we agreed. I can’t just ...”

 _“It will happen tonight_ , _”_ the voice repeated. _“Either Celene dies by your hand or I will release the records of our communications.”_

“You—you bastard, this is not—you can’t make me do this, I won’t ...”

_“Your fate is in my hand. Pray that you do not fail as well.”_

“Please, I—I’ll do anything, you still need me. We had a deal! We had a deal, dammit!”

There was no reply.

 

* * *

 

 

Having handed Engraver over to the Inquisition’s agents and informed Celene of the events and having reintroduced her to Briala, they found themselves crowded around the communications room once more. “This is on me,” Leliana admitted the instant she had heard the news. “Engraver was one of my best agents. I never suspected ... she’d been with us for months, nearly from the beginning. Maker, she recruited assets for us. This is an unmitigated security disaster. We’re going to triple-check everyone she worked with, everyone she was in contact with. If she was recruiting double agents under my nose, you will know. I swear it.”

“What’s done is done,” Cullen commented. “Celene is alive and the peace talks can continue.”

Josephine objected, reapplying her make-up with a tiny hand mirror. “Engraver was not acting on her own. There might still be other assassins afoot, not to mention their sponsor. How long until we can interrogate her?”

“Several hours, at least. I’m afraid Hawke chilled her a little aggressively.”

Bethany blushed at that and murmured “had to do something ...” Josephine was right, though. “No complacency. The empress is still in danger.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. Now, I have an update from Operation Supervisor for you ...”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bethany rose from her seat. “How long until they get there?”

“At least fifteen minutes, I’m afraid. Trevelyan and his people will have to hold out that long. At least the enemy doesn’t seem to be making any attempts to break the siege, yet.”

“That only means whatever is inside that compound is too valuable to leave,” Leliana grimly pointed out. “We should have attacked earlier. when we had the chance. Let’s hope Matador are as good as their sales pitch promised.”

Bethany ignored the implicit admonishment. Maker damn it, whoever had put her in charge again? _Ah, right. Andraste. Sure does know how to pick ‘em._ She tried to recall Trevelyan’s face—she hadn’t seen him around in weeks, maybe months. _Young. Eager._ When she caught Lavellan’s expression to her side, it was stony and tense, teeth ground and eyes straight ahead. _He’ll be fine_ , she wanted to say, but couldn’t. “I ... I’ll need to go, speak to the empress. She might still be in danger. What about the intruder?”

Cullen ground his teeth. “Dropped off the radar, it seems. The Imperial Guard are running themselves ragged looking for them. Several of my people have disappeared, as well, it seems. Whoever they are, they’re good. We must assume they’ve breached the inner sanctum.”

In other words, they could be anyone, anywhere. “Keep looking,” she ordered. “And make sure the Imperial Guard can do their job without being crowded by our people. We’ve already uncovered one double agent in our ranks tonight. I don’t want another.”

“As you say, Inquisitor. I’ll inform you of any changes.”

Lavellan reluctantly following her, she returned to the public area. Evidently, the rumour of Engraver’s betrayal and their near-death experience had spread, judging by the stares and whispers she received as she made her way to the library, which had been set aside for use by the negotiators. The guards at the door let her in without complaint, though Bethany noticed they seemed tense and more numerous than before.

Bethany passed by the small army of lawyers and diplomats and their towers of documents in the main reading room and found the empress on one of the balconies. To her surprise, she wasn’t alone. “Your Imperial Majesty. Assemblywoman. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Mme l’Inquisitrice,” Celene greeted her with a faint bow of her head. “Briala and I were just talking about you. Please, join us.”

She raised an eyebrow, but complied. “We have to express our thanks to you,” the empress continued, and Bethany wasn’t quite sure if she was using the royal ‘we’ or not. “Not only have you apprehended an assassin, you have also prompted a conversation long overdue.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

Briala crossed her arms. “I told you that Her Majesty had locked me out of the eluvian network, didn’t I? She insists she has done no such thing, and that she has no access, either. I think I almost believe her.”

“I, for one, am relieved to see that weapon taken out of this conflict. It was ... unpredictable. There could be no hope of trust between the parties with it in play. Now, I think, an agreement has come within reach.”

“We’re not there yet,” Bethany cautioned. “I notice the Grand Duke isn’t here.”

“My cousin has gone for a walk in the gardens. To clear his head; I welcome that. I don’t expect we’ll reach a final settlement tonight, of course, but an armistice ...” The empress paused and looked at Briala. “Whatever may happen, I thank you, Mme l’Inquisitrice. Tonight, my throne stands more securely than it has done in years, and my heart is at peace. I believe Gaspard will agree to my proposal, with yourself and Briala standing as its guarantors.” She smirked. “As for what comes after—take his guns away, and Gaspard is just an angry little kitty. But I’m still a lion.”

Bethany had to laugh at that mental image. “Then I wish you the best of luck,” she said. “Both of you.” Briala gave her a grateful nod and smile. _I don’t know if it will have been worth it in the end, but at least something good seems to have come of tonight._

“I’ll show the Inquisitor out,” the elf said, rising.

“Don’t be too long ... Brie.”

Bethany almost stopped dead in her tracks and caught the assemblywoman glaring back at the empress. _Brie?_ Then, the glare turned into a smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it, _Celery._ ”

It was all she could do not to burst out laughing as Briala _(Brie!)_   shepherded her outside the library. “What was that?” she half-said, half-guffawed once they were out of earshot. “Celery and Brie, really now?”

“Shut up. Not a word of this to anyone, or I will destroy your Inquisition faster than you can say ‘religious tax exemption’.” She sighed. “You’ve done a lot for us. I appreciate it. Has your double agent revealed anything about her backers yet?”

“She’s still unconscious, I’m told. I would suspect Corypheus, but if that’s the case I don’t see how he could have recruited her without mortal intermediaries. Those might still be here, eager to strike.”

Briala nodded. “We’ll keep the empress safe. My people have already started to share intelligence with the Imperial Guard. Another thing: we believe our mysterious intruder is somewhere here in the Hall of Homage or thereabouts. So far, they have eluded us; we are discreetly surveying the guests. I’d advice you to be careful.”

“Thank you, I will.”

Slowly, Bethany made her way back towards the Inquisition comms room, avoiding the well-wishes and advances of the party guests along the way. She was sure she didn’t cut much of a figure at this point: her hair and clothes had been thoroughly dishevelled by the grenade and chase after Engraver, and she had discarded her sword and bowtie entirely.

She came to a pause on the raised balustrade overlooking the dance floor and the throne in the Hall of Homage. The huge, floor-length windows behind the throne had been thrown wide open, allowing the guests to pass in and out of the gardens and letting the imperial banners hung in the windows billow in the wind like the sails of a mighty old ship-of-the-line. Beyond the chill and dark of the night, however, the hall was warm and alive with hundreds of voices, the rustling of cloth and the ringing of glasses. Unseen musicians played light chamber music. Thousands of electric candles, along the walls and on the massive crystal chandeliers on the gilded ceiling, bathed the room in a warm golden light, And there, at the head of the room, the sunlit throne, now unoccupied. At least for now, it seemed, Celene would continue to sit it, but the threat remained.

Once more, she quietly went through the list of suspects. If she wasn’t completely mistaken, Briala’s affection for the empress was genuine, and she would not allow Celene to be assassinated. Gaspard, however, remained an option. His ‘going for a walk’ in the gardens was somewhat suspicious, but he might simply have needed to get some air after learning of the new alliance between his rival and Briala. That he had motive to have Celene assassinated was clear, but—somehow, she couldn’t picture it. Then there was Florianne, an outsider. She, too, would benefit from the empress’ death, and she, too, had attempted to manipulate her, much as the others had. Still, she had been surprised how out of touch the grand duchess had appeared when dancing with her. Swallowing her claim that they’d apprehended the intruder, parroting rumours about the Council aides having been murdered by an elf ...

Except they _had_ been murdered by an elf. Frowning, Bethany tried to think back to the rest of that conversation. Her reaction when she’d claimed to have apprehended an assassin had been odd, she recalled, but she couldn’t quite place it.

As it happened, she caught a look of Gaspard and his sister re-entering the Hall of Homage from the garden, her arm in his. The grand duke must have spotted her from across the room, for he nodded slightly in her direction. At this distance, she couldn’t make out his expression, but the way he moved suggested tension. Beside him, Florianne ... she was still masked, but her hands tightly clasped her skirts.

Could it be? The evidence was slim by any definition, but somehow it seemed to fit together. Florianne had organised the peace talks, after all, and had mentioned sending the Guard off towards the west wing. Working together with an assassin, that would have taken some of the pressure off the empress and helped clear a path. And once she was dead? Gaspard would be emperor, and Florianne next in line. _And if she’s willing to kill her cousin, why not her brother?_

Across the hall, she watched the siblings exchange a few words, then separate. Gaspard went off towards the right side, having spotted his uncle the Duke Germain there. Bethany’s eyes followed Florianne—who hurried up the stairs to the gallery, ignoring several guests who approached her. Headed towards the library. _Let’s see what she’s up to._

Not letting the grand duchess out of her sight, she hurried her way past the thicket of chatting party guests to reach her. She wasn’t sure what she would say or do, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. _The guards won’t stop her. Celene won’t suspect her._

“Mme l’Inquisitrice, may I have the pleasure of your next dance?” She didn’t bother to look in the direction of the asker, and was in truth barely paying attention to her.

“Not right now, Madame, I am quite—” She was interrupted by a strong hand tightly gripping her upper arm and twirling her around, and before she knew what was happening, a pair of hot, rough lips had claimed hers—

Gasping, she pushed her assailant away, supplementing her hand with a blast of raw telekinetic energy that sent the woman stumbling back into the crowd, causing some disturbance. What on earth—no matter; she turned back on her path, Florianne would not get away ...

That was when she saw her assailant’s face, and froze as all else was wiped clear from her mind.

_Oh, Maker._

Marian Hawke had never looked more out-of-place than she did now, steadying herself against some unfortunate bystanders in gowns and tailcoats. The sight of her took Bethany’s breath away in more ways than once—her skin was sallow and her hair dull, her eyes tired and lined by dark rings. There were some new scars on her face, joined to the large gash across the bridge of her nose. Her clothes, including that damned old army greatcoat of hers, could charitably be described as threadbare. “Hey,” her sister quietly said, a lopsided smile that did not reach her eyes on her craggy lips. “It’s been a while.”

A thousand possible responses flew through her head, a thousand thousand sensations, each more painful than the last. She remembered—Maker, how she remembered—what was it? A dingy little motel room, she knew not where, a cold and empty bed; the fires of the Gallows reflected in her eyes; pleading blue eyes above her behind a gas mask as she fades out of consciousness ...

Her throat was dry; she could scarcely breathe. “What ... why ...” she croaked, and silently continued _why now why you why now when it’s going so well and Maker what shall I do what will I DO._ She felt herself stumbling and had to reach out to the balustrade to steady herself. “No, I ... no!”

“Bethany ...”

“Go! Go. I don’t—I don’t want to see you. Go,” she stammered, even as every fibre of her being was screaming over the others, clamouring to be heard. Oh, Maker, that look, that look in Marian’s eyes, that hurt more than being abandoned by her ever had. “Leave,” she repeated, blindly, she couldn’t deal with this right now, not now when things were looking up at last. _Maker, blessed lady, what is happening what should I do how is this FAIR_

“Leave!”

Not waiting for an answer, she turned, desperately tried to focus on anything that wasn’t Marian or that terrible emptiness inside her, and saw Florianne, entering the library. _Oh, Maker ..._ Still staggering, she broke into a jog, then a run, rushing her way through the crowd. “Bethany!” a voice cried behind her, but she shut it out, ignored it as best she could. She elbowed past a duchess and rammed into a marquis with her shoulder before she reached the library, where the guards barred her way. Without even thinking, she hurled them aside _as she had struck Marian_ and burst into the library, there, the gallery, taking three steps at a time in huge bounds she climbed—

Like a still image, the scene would remain engraved in her mind.

Celene, seated on a chaise longue; Briala beside her, half-risen, and before them: Florianne, less like an angel of vengeance than a frightened child, clutching the pistol with both hands—

Bethany screamed something, she knew not what, but the sound broke and shattered on six rapid, deep thundercracks. A high-pitched, constant ringing droned in her ears, and she did not hear the gun hit the floor, its barrel still smoking. She did not hear Briala’s outcry, or Florianne collapsing and bursting into sobs. She did not hear the empress scream, or cry, or say a word, but that was because she did none of these things.

Celene’s mouth opened, then closed again, her eyes wide. Her hand went up to chest, hovered, trembling, above the six red flowers blooming on the pale skin of her décolleté, then sank. She looked at Briala, staring, her jaw again dropping—a shudder went through her body, and blood mixed with drool ran down her chin. “-ene, Celene, Celene,” Briala cried, repeating her mantra as Bethany’s hearing returned, slender elven hands running across the empress’ face, trying to futilely seal her wounds, “Look at me, Celene, look at me, stay with me, do something you’re a mage aren’t you do something heal her!”

By the time Bethany had managed to focus enough to channel her mana into the wounds, it was too late. Her Imperial Majesty, Celene, by the grace of the Maker and the constitutions of the Nation, Empress of Orlais, Queen of the Dales, Sword and Shield of the Faith, and sovereign over all the world, died like all the rest, and long lived the emperor.

 

* * *

 

 

“Secure!”

“Secure!”

He leisurely swept the room with the light cone of the torch attached to his rifle, stepping over the monstrously mutilated body of a red templar, still faintly glowing from the lyrium growing inside her. “All rooms have been secured,” he concluded. “Good work, folks.”

 _“Well done, Bull,”_ the voice on the other end of his ear pod commented. The commander sounded dead tired. _“Sweep the compound for anything useful. That crate, especially. I want to know what was in that. Then get out.”_

“Copy that, boss. Aclassi, what’s our status?”

“No casualties on our end,” his lieutenant reported, coming up to him. “Think the Inquisition regulars lost some people before we arrived, but we don’t have a count yet.”

“Check with their CO, then. We’ll medevac as many as we can in the choppers.”

“Will do.”

He continued through the compound, stepping over the corpses of red templars here and there. Even without them, it was a mess, precisely what one would have expected from a bunch of soldiers holed up in the middle of the forest for months. At one point he rolled over one of the corpses and shone a flashlight in the man’s face. _“That’s Samson, alright. We got him.”_

“Happy to hear it. You owe us drinks when we get back to Skyhold.”

_“Not right now, Bull.”_

He shrugged, sending mountains of muscles and meat a-quiver under his oversized combat vest. He scooped up a few handfuls of documents in one of the rooms, picked up a laptop in another, but nowhere did he see anything fitting the briefing’s description of the mysterious crate. _“Boss, Aclassi. Might want to come down here. Staircase off the hallway.”_

“On my way.” He went down to the cellar, having to duck to avoid hitting his horns on the low ceiling.

“Over here, boss,” Krem called out, waving him over to a side room—a root cellar, where a couple of his people were already waiting. “You need to see this.” He raised his torch.

On a plain metal table stood a sharply pointed cone of black metal, about 1.8 metres long and half a metre in diameter at its base. Its form was completely regular and entirely smooth, the metal was unmarked. “What am I looking at?”

 _“Can you get a closer look?”_ That was not the commander speaking, but the fancy Orlesian lady, the mage—Madame de la Ferre, was it? _“If it is what I think it is, there should be a serial number on the underside.”_ Obligingly, he detached the small camera from his shoulder strap and set it on the table, before gripping the smooth cone with both hands as best he could to turn it on its side. It was surprisingly heavy, and slightly warm to the touch.

He pointed the camera at the underside of the cone. True enough, there was a metal plaque there above some sort of electronic interface, a numerical code engraved on it. Above it, small, shallow letters read _Tout est un dans les yeux du Créateur._ “Got something,” he reported in case the camera didn’t catch the number. “The serial number reads one six four dash eight dash four one dash—”

 _“Fuck,”_ said Madame de la Ferre.

 _“Everything alright? Care to enlighten us?”_ That was the commander, sounding just as puzzled as he was.

_“It’s—it’s one of our Empty Quivers. A W904-type thaumic warhead and re-entry vehicle for ICBMs.”_

“Fuck!” Bull exclaimed, jumping backwards. “And I touched that thing?”

 _“Is it safe, Vivienne?”_ That was the Inquisitor, he knew, though they’d never met. Her voice sounded urgent, but tired. She hadn’t spoken before.

_“Perfectly. Obviously don’t go opening it unless you have to, it does contain several kilograms of weapons-grade lyrium. But the weapon is completely inert unless triggered using the correct ignition sequence.”_

_“Good. We’re taking it with us. Bring it back to Skyhold.”_


End file.
